


Talk About It

by hope_in_the_dark



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Human, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gabriel is Not A Great Person, M/M, Miscommunication, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), The Princess Bride References, look they're in love with each other but think they're just best friends, these absolute walnuts I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28552917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_in_the_dark/pseuds/hope_in_the_dark
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have been best friends for sixteen years. Crowley's been in love with Aziraphale for almost that long. When Aziraphale tells his family that he'll be bringing his boyfriend to his step-brother's wedding, things get a bit complicated.A Fake Dating AU.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 257
Kudos: 319
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ineffablefool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/gifts).



> Hello, friends! 
> 
> Yes, this is _another_ fic. Yes, I still have two other WIPs. But this one is different, because I completed it before I started posting it! It started as a birthday gift for my wonderful found-family brother, Jack, waaaaay back in May, but I didn't get around to finishing it until recently. So, rest assured that I am still working on finishing [Across the Line](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25237720/chapters/61177384) and [The Serpent's House](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27705290/chapters/67806458), but also know that you can expect one update a week on this fic for the next six weeks until the entire thing has been posted. I love and appreciate you all so very much! 
> 
> Warnings for this fic: it's a Fake Dating AU, so it's chock-full of pining for the first little while. I promise, as always, that it ends up happy and soft. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: language

_“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” - Jane Austen, **Emma**_

\-- _2004_

It began in a garden. 

It began in two gardens, technically. They were separated by a fence. A red-haired boy in one garden was busy looking into the other through a hole in the wood. 

The boy’s name was James Crowley (a name he hated, and therefore one which he was constantly in the process of changing), and he had decided to stand with his face pressed against a fence because his mother had told him that their new neighbors had a son around his age. Crowley was trying to get a look at his neighbor, hoping to gauge whether he would be a friend-type or an enemy-type. 

The new neighbor boy was sitting on a brightly-colored quilt on the grass in the middle of his garden, and he seemed to be building something out of sticks. Every once in a while, Crowley would hear the boy make a noise — a hum, a brief burst of rather terrible whistling, a short sentence or two — but for the most part, he was silent. His hair was fluffy and so blond it was almost white in the midday sun, and he was wearing a blue t-shirt with what looked like a print of a bowtie near the neckline. 

He was also, Crowley realized with a jolt, very cute. These types of realizations were still relatively new — he was a fourteen-year-old boy who’d just recently figured out that straight blokes don’t typically think about kissing other boys, and so the idea that kissing his new neighbor sounded _excellent_ was messing with his head. 

Crowley decided that this was a problem for another time and dragged a chair off of his back patio, shoving it up against the fence. He climbed on top of it, leaning forward so that he could rest his chin on his forearms. 

“Hi,” Crowley said, and his neighbor made a squeaking sound and jumped halfway out of his skin. 

The boy set down the stick he was holding and smoothed his hands over the front of his shirt, eyes flicking up toward Crowley every few moments. Finally, he took a breath so deep Crowley could see his chest move and said, “Hello.” 

“I’m Crowley.” 

“Aziraphale Adams,” said the boy. He was staring at Crowley with equal amounts of amusement, suspicion, and curiosity, so Crowley pushed himself up onto his toes and gave Aziraphale a grin. 

“Hi, Aziraphale Adams,” Crowley chirped. “Whatcha making?” 

Aziraphale’s cheeks went slightly pink. “Ah, nothing.” 

“You’ve got a massive pile of twigs,” Crowley pointed out.

Pink became red, and Aziraphale shoved his hands underneath his thighs. 

“I’m not _building_ anything. I just… I like putting them in lines. Helps me think.” 

Huh. Okay, then. 

Crowley shrugged. “Okay.” Aziraphale’s head snapped up, and his eyes locked on Crowley’s like he was looking for something and was surprised not to find it. “What’re you thinking about, then?” 

“You ask a lot of questions,” Aziraphale said. 

“Yeah. Wanna answer ‘em?” 

“I guess that depends on why you want to know.” There was an edge to Aziraphale’s voice, and it sounded out of place amongst all of the fussy-sounding grammar and soft inflections. 

“Just curious,” Crowley said, pulling his hands back to either side of his head in a gesture of surrender. “That’s all, I swear.” 

Aziraphale was squinting at him. They were too far away for Crowley to make out the exact color of his eyes, but he could tell that they were light. Blue, maybe. Could be green. Or hazel. 

“Fine,” Aziraphale said after a few long seconds of squinting. “I’m thinking about school.” 

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Eugh. Why?” 

“I just moved here. I’m _nervous_.” 

“What year’re you in?” 

“Nine,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s heart gave a hopeful pound inside of his chest. 

“Same.” 

Something that might have been a smile caused Aziraphale’s lips to twitch. “Really?” 

“Really,” said Crowley. “Wanna be my friend?” 

_\-- 2020. Present day._

Crowley’s phone was vibrating in his pocket, and he was waiting for Beez to stop talking to him about deadlines and lazy department members so that he could make up a halfway decent excuse and answer the stupid thing. It had been ringing every five minutes on the dot, which meant two things: the caller was Aziraphale, and Aziraphale was in some sort of trouble. 

“Beez,” Crowley said, tapping his pen lightly on their desk. “I got it. Finish the presentation for our lecture on invasive species and get it over to you for checks, and then call Hastur and figure out why the hell I’ve been covering his classes for the past week.” 

Beez narrowed their eyes. “Are you giving me fucking _cheek,_ Crowley?” 

“Of course not,” Crowley lied. He hated this department. Hated that they treated him like he was at the bottom of the food chain — he’d gotten his PhD at 23, which made him the youngest lecturer at the university, and everyone in the entire wide net of Biology-related faculty hated him for it. Beez was Crowley’s department head, and they were harder on him than anyone else. They were brilliant, sure, but they had also been treating Crowley like their own personal errand boy for the entirety of the seven years Crowley had worked at Tadfield. Beez would be done with him when they were done, and Crowley’s time was theirs until they said otherwise. 

“You’d better not be,” Beez said.

“You have my complete and undivided attention,” Crowley hissed through his teeth. “Is there anything else, or is it just the invasives lecture and getting Hastur to do his job?” 

“Slash and burn a third of your video on the things you have in the greenhouse. We only need ten minutes for the course preview, not fifteen.” 

Crowley was certain that he’d break a tooth if he clenched his jaw any more, so he elected to give Beez a tight smile and say, “Fine.”

With a shake of their head, Beez turned their attention back to whatever paperwork they’d been filling out when Crowley had come in. Crowley waited a moment, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet and then falling back to his heels, but Beez didn’t look up. 

“That all?” Crowley asked. 

Beez’s eye roll was practically audible. “Yes, that’s all. Done by the end of the day, got it?” 

“Got it.” 

Crowley all but ran out of Beez’s office, fumbling to pull his phone out of his pocket as he made his way downstairs. _His_ office was in the basement. It was a sort of joke, really; someone had thought it would be funny to put the newbie horticulture lecturer in a room that never got any sun. Beez had never had any inclination to listen to Crowley’s requests for a new space, so Crowley had become a sort of basement rat over the years.

Crowley was unlocking the door when Aziraphale answered the phone. 

_“Crowley.”_ Aziraphale’s voice was wobbly with panic, and Crowley could hear the wetness in it. He’d been crying. 

“Sorry,” Crowley said reflexively. “Had to meet with Beez, you know how they get.” 

_“Did I_ — _oh dear, please tell me I didn’t make them angry with you.”_

“You didn’t.” Crowley had never been great at comfort and consolation, but he tried to force as much of that into his words as possible. “I’m fine. What’s, uh. Are _you_ okay?”

A noise that sounded alarmingly like a sob slipped through the phone, so Crowley started shoving things (his laptop, books he needed to finish the lecture for Beez, notebooks, lesson plans) into his messenger bag. 

_“I’ve done something terrible,”_ Aziraphale said after a moment. 

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

_“I **have** , Crowley. It’s ridiculous, and it’s embarrassing, and it’s terrible.” _

“Do you want me to come over?” 

_“I…”_ Crowley knew that Aziraphale was pacing, now. He could hear it in the heightened rate of Aziraphale’s breathing. _“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”_

“I’ll be there in thirty,” Crowley said. “Do me a favor in the meantime, though.” 

_“Yes?”_

“Keep your shirt on,” Crowley instructed, and Aziraphale choked out a watery laugh. “Whatever it is that you think you’ve done, we’ll figure out how to fix it.” 

_“You say that now,”_ said Aziraphale. _“I think you’ll hate me for this.”_

“I could never.” 

_“Crowley.”_ Aziraphale started to protest, but Crowley cut him off. 

“We’ll sort it, okay?” 

Aziraphale sighed. _“We’ll sort it.”_

Crowley hung up with a “See you soon,” and then he tore off through London at a speed that very well might have qualified him to race Les Mans. 

Aziraphale’s bookshop occupied a small corner of Soho, and over the years it had become so packed full of books that there was no longer any room on the shelves. Small stacks of books were balanced at the ends of nearly every row of shelves, and the display tables had long been in a state of constant chaos and disarray. The shop was essentially a dusty obstacle course tended by a bookseller who was really more of a collector than anything else, and Crowley loved it. It was the place where he spent most of his time outside of the university, and the reason for that was Aziraphale. 

When Crowley arrived at the shop, there was a ‘Closed’ sign hanging in the window. Crowley, as usual, ignored this. He let himself in with the key that had been hanging on his keyring for the better part of five years, fully expecting to see Aziraphale wearing holes in one of the shop’s musty carpets. Instead, he found nothing but the books. 

“Aziraphale?”

The reply was muffled by distance. “Upstairs, Crowley.” 

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Crowley walked toward the back of the shop. The door that led to the stairs connecting Aziraphale’s flat to the shop was already open, so Crowley shut it behind him and made his way up. 

Aziraphale was sitting in his kitchen with his head in his hands, four cups of tea steaming on the table in front of him. His curls were alarmingly untidy — he’d been tugging at them, Crowley could tell just by looking — and his bottom lip was red from his worrying at it with his teeth. As always, he was wearing a soft cotton button-down underneath a waistcoat (velvet, today), and one of his ever-present tartan bowties was tied around his neck. He seemed to be about four seconds away from falling into a full-blown panic, but he was still beautiful. He was always beautiful.

It was a difficult thing to be in love with one’s best friend, but Crowley was used to it by now. 

So Crowley did what he’d been doing for years. He crushed down his feelings, jammed his fingers more firmly into his pockets, and tried not to think about what he would do if he was really properly _with_ Aziraphale. And then he leaned against the doorframe and said, “Hi.” 

“Hello.” Aziraphale didn’t look up. “Would you mind sitting with me? I don’t quite have the energy to do this any other way.” 

Crowley crossed to the table and sunk down into the chair across from Aziraphale. He kept his hands in his pockets. 

With a sigh, Aziraphale pushed two of the cups of tea over to Crowley’s side of the table. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You know there’s only one of me, right?” 

“This is a two-cup problem, Crowley,” Aziraphale said petulantly. 

It had been a while since there had been a two-cup problem, so Crowley obligingly shut his mouth and took a sip of tea. Whatever had gone wrong had gone very seriously wrong. 

Aziraphale chewed at his lip for a few seconds longer, his eyes still fixated on the wood of the table rather than on Crowley. His own tea was growing cold in front of him.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, “are you going to tell me what’s going on?” 

“I didn’t mean to do this,” Aziraphale said to his teacups. “Please believe me, Crowley. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” 

“Didn’t mean for what to happen?” 

“Gabriel’s getting married,” Aziraphale said. “They’ve set the date, and Gabriel called to confirm that I’d gotten the invitation. I said that I had, and he said he’d put me down for one seat and meal since I’m not… not going with anyone at the moment.” 

Crowley bristled. Gabriel was Aziraphale’s self-obsessed, pretty-boy business executive hotshot of a step-brother, and there was not a single person on the planet who Crowley hated more. Since the day Gabriel’s father had married Aziraphale’s mum, Gabriel had been taking shots at Aziraphale over everything from his manner of speaking to his sexuality to his dress sense to his weight. Aziraphale had asked him to stop on multiple occasions, but Gabriel never had. He’d just become more subtle with his insults, doling them out as back-handed compliments or ‘life advice.’ For years, Aziraphale had been calling Crowley about the things Gabriel said, and for years, Crowley had been wanting to find the bastard and throttle him. This wasn’t an excellent endorsement of Crowley’s character, though, so he’d kept that particular desire to himself. 

Now, though, Crowley was tempted to climb back into his Bentley and run Gabriel down with it. 

“Gabriel’s a git,” Crowley said. “You know he’s a git. He gets a kick out of making you feel worthless, which you aren’t, and less than him, which you definitely aren’t. He’s an ass.” 

“I know.” Aziraphale’s voice was shaking again. “Which is why I, ah. Lied to him. I told him that I’ve been seeing someone, that I’m _not_ single.” 

Crowley choked on his tea. 

“You did what?” 

“I told him that I have a boyfriend, Crowley.” 

“Uh,” Crowley said. “Okay, so?” 

For the first time since Crowley had come in, Aziraphale looked at him. 

“Gabriel asked me who he is.” 

Something like ice slid down Crowley’s spine. “Oh?” 

“I panicked,” Aziraphale said softly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“What’re you sorry for?” 

“I told him that it’s you.” 

Crowley’s vision went white. There was a ringing sound in his ears that he couldn’t quite place, and louder than that was the too-fast thumping of his heart. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be… Aziraphale wouldn’t have picked _Crowley._ There were other people. There were exes, and there were friends from book clubs and libraries and wine tastings. He wouldn’t have picked Crowley. He wouldn’t have picked someone his family _knew._

He wouldn’t have, but somehow, he did. 

“Oh,” Crowley managed to say after a moment. “Gosh.” 

“I’m _sorry,_ Crowley. I didn’t plan any of this — please, you have to know that I didn’t do this on purpose. It’s just that, well. You’re my best friend. You were the first person who came to mind.”

“Right.” Crowley braced his hands on the edge of the table, trying to hide the fact that his head was spinning. “Did you, ngh. Tell Gabriel that I’d be coming with you?” 

Aziraphale turned a very vibrant shade of red. “Y-yes. But I can tell him that you couldn’t come. I _will_ tell him that. I just thought… well, I suppose I thought that you should know.” 

_Shit,_ Crowley thought. _Shit, shit, shit._

“You can’t do that, Aziraphale.” 

“Of course I can.” 

Crowley made himself breathe. Made himself be rational, made himself be calm. Did not think about taking Aziraphale to his snobby holier-than-thou brother’s wedding. Did not think about rubbing a relationship with Aziraphale (which he didn’t have even now — _especially_ now) in Gabriel’s smarmy face. Did not think about dancing with Aziraphale. 

“Your mum still lives next door to my mum,” Crowley said with false composure. “They have tea every Thursday. Gabriel will tell his dad, who will tell your mum, who will tell my mum.” 

Aziraphale’s face went from flushed to bloodless in a millisecond. 

“Oh,” he said. 

“And then my mum will call me, and she’ll ask me why I didn’t tell her I’ve been seeing you. And if you try to get me out of this, both of our mums will drop by my flat every day until I agree to go. They’ll want… look, they’ll want to see us together.” 

“There has to be a way out of this,” Aziraphale said quickly. 

Crowley flinched. It shouldn’t have hurt, probably, that Aziraphale was already trying to come up with a way to not have to even pretend to be in a relationship with Crowley, but it did. It was a new knife in an old wound, and what Aziraphale said next drove it deeper. 

“You shouldn’t have to do this. Not after, well. Not after what happened when we were younger.” Aziraphale’s soft eyes were wide and impossibly, _cruelly_ gentle. “I promised myself I’d never do anything to hurt you like this again. I’m sor—” 

“It’s fine,” Crowley said. He curled his lips into a smile, hoping that it didn’t look as pained as it felt. “That was twelve years ago. I’m over it. It’s fine.” 

It was not fine, and Crowley was not over it. He had tried to be, but there was still a part of his heart that kept the ache. His tongue still remembered forming the words ‘I’m in love with you,’ and his mind replayed the sound of shocked silence that had followed. But it had been twelve years, and Aziraphale’s feelings (or rather, lack thereof) hadn’t changed. 

So Crowley straightened in his chair and finished his first cup of tea. He could do this. He could be Aziraphale’s date to this wedding, and he could do what needed to be done to stick Gabriel’s face in it. Aziraphale would have to fake being in love with Crowley, but Crowley wouldn’t need to pretend. He could do this, this one thing, because Aziraphale was his best friend. The fact that Aziraphale was also the love of his life was, for the time being, irrelevant. 

“I’ll go with you to the wedding,” Crowley said, and the tension flooded out of Aziraphale’s shoulders. “It’ll be a lark. We can make it… y’know, make it fun.” 

“Crowley.” 

“Really, it’s okay. I’m finally gonna get the chance to show Gabriel how wrong he is about you, and that’s been a long time coming.” 

A hesitant smile spread over Aziraphale’s lips. “You have too high an opinion of me, you know.” 

“I don’t,” Crowley said. “You’re… you’re a very good thing, Aziraphale, and I’m sorry people don’t tell you that enough. Sorry that your step-brother’s an asshat, too.” 

Aziraphale’s ears went pink, and he mumbled something unintelligible into his tea. 

“And see? I told you we’d sort it,” Crowley said. 

“You did.” 

“This will work.” 

“I’m sorry that it has to.” Aziraphale caught Crowley’s gaze again. “Truly, Crowley. I know there are better things you could be doing, and I know that you can’t find anyone to date properly until all of this is over. I didn’t intend to drag you into my issues with my family, and I swear to you that I’ll never do it again.” 

There were a million things that Crowley wanted to say in answer to that. He wanted to say that there was nothing in the world that could be better than being with Aziraphale, even if it wasn’t real. He wanted to say that he hadn’t dated anyone properly in a few years. He wanted to say that he’d happily be dragged into Aziraphale’s family problems for the rest of his life if Aziraphale wanted him to be there. 

But Crowley couldn’t say those things, so he said, “You’re my best friend. ‘S not a hardship to help you out.” 

“Thank you.” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, the shaky edges gone. Back to normal. And then he carried on talking, going on about customers and books and a new vineyard he’d heard good things about, and Crowley let him. 

_It’s the little things,_ Crowley’s therapist had told him once. _Grand gestures are nice sometimes, and on certain occasions they’re even expected, but they’re not what love **is**. Love is the little things, like letting someone talk about something you don’t care about. Asking someone how their day was. Doing the dishes when it’s not your turn. Reminding someone that they mean something to you, just because you haven’t said it in a while. _

Aziraphale, Crowley knew, loved Crowley with the little things. It was a different type of love than what Crowley held for him — Aziraphale didn’t want the romantic kind, not with Crowley — but it was love nonetheless. He made Crowley tea. He bought the kind of biscuits Crowley liked even though he was less than fond of them himself. He asked Crowley about his classes and his plants, and he let Crowley rant and rave about the way he was treated at work. He _did_ love Crowley, and Crowley knew it. And that meant that this thing they were going to do, this completely mad thing, was going to be okay. Because Aziraphale had always loved Crowley with the little things, and Crowley couldn’t imagine that even something like this would get him to stop.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rules are set, and Crowley remembers an important moment from the past that he and Aziraphale share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Short note this week - sorry this is up so late! I've been having internet connectivity issues, and it's been terribly difficult to get anything done. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Keep an eye out for some updates on my other WIPs this week, too, if you're following them!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: language

“We need rules.” 

Crowley stopped swirling his scotch around in his glass and stared at Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s own glass was empty, dangling from the tips of his fingers like he had forgotten he was holding it. 

“Rules,” Crowley said slowly. “Right. For what?” 

Aziraphale pushed himself out of his chair with a sigh. He walked to Crowley’s bar cart and poured himself another glass of scotch, shooting Crowley an exasperated look over his shoulder. 

“You _know_ what for.” The stopper went back in the bottle, which was now short a few fingers of amber liquid. “If we’re going to be— if we’re to act like we are an item, we ought to have rules. We need to establish how much is too much, how little is too little.” 

It had been a week and a half since Aziraphale had told the biggest lie of his life, and aside from the phone call that Crowley received from his mother on Thursday afternoon, neither of them had spoken about their situation since. Crowley had been waiting for Aziraphale to bring it up. He’d thought that when the time came to say something, Aziraphale would do so only to back out of it. He’d thought that Aziraphale would call it off, tell Crowley that it was a mutual moment of madness. He’d thought he’d have to talk Aziraphale into it again. 

But here Aziraphale was, settling back into one of the armchairs in Crowley’s flat, taking large sips of scotch and staring at Crowley as though he expected _Crowley_ to set the rules. 

“You know your family,” Crowley said. “So you tell me: how much relationship-type stuff do we have to do to convince them this is real?” 

“We’ll have to be physically affectionate when we’re around them, I should think.” Aziraphale set his glass on the coffee table and braced his hands on his knees. “That, I suppose, entails things like hugs. Holding hands. Brushing your hair out of your eyes — and speaking of which, it _is_ getting rather long again, Crowley, you’re past due for a trim — and other similar sorts of behaviors.” 

Hugs. Hand-holding. Intentionally romantic-looking touches. Right. 

“Okay. What else?”

A brief moment of shock flickered across Aziraphale’s face, but it was gone before Crowley could ask the reason for it. 

“They’ll want to see photographs of the two of us together, I’d imagine,” Aziraphale continued. “Being… well, being a couple.” 

Crowley thought about this as he swallowed the last of his drink. “So what we need to figure out first, then, is when we started dating.” 

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “Yes. That seems logical.” 

“I was vague with my mum when she asked. Told her it’s been a little while, that this isn’t a new thing.” 

Aziraphale made a considering noise and said, “Seven months, then?” 

“Oddly specific, innit?” 

“It only makes sense.” Aziraphale’s glass had found its way back into his hand. “The last time either of us were home was for the Christmas holiday, which was nine months ago. If we say it’s been longer than that, they’ll call our bluff. We certainly weren’t behaving like we were involved in any sort of, ah, _romantic endeavor_ back then, and I’d imagine that would be a much more complicated lie to tell.” 

“Seven months,” Crowley said. “Got it. There’s got to be a picture or two of us since Christmas that can serve as evidence, but we’ll still have to…” He struggled for the right word, waving his glass-less hand in Aziraphale’s direction. “We’ll have to stage them, I guess. Go out and do things together. Harass a waiter into taking a photo at a restaurant, talk someone into stopping in the park. No big deal.” 

Crowley’s mind was reminding him that it was, in fact, a very big deal. Soon, he would have pictures of himself and Aziraphale in his camera roll that were much less platonic-looking than the ones he had currently. He would have to look at them, show them to people at the wedding. Smile and laugh and talk about all of the dates he and Aziraphale had gone on. Lie, and keep lying, and try to stop himself from wishing it was real. 

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale said faintly. “That should be… yes.” 

“Right. Can I ask a question, then?” 

One of Aziraphale’s eyebrows arched toward his curls. “Of course.” 

“Do you think we should practice?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. The light in Crowley’s flat flooded into his irises, turning them from their usual pale honey-brown into a sort of hazel. Light did strange things to Aziraphale’s eyes, and even though Crowley had known Aziraphale for more than fifteen years, he still hadn’t quite gotten used to it. It was beautiful every single time, and it always made Crowley think of fences and quilts and a pile of sticks. Beautiful then, and beautiful now.

“Practice?” Aziraphale sounded like he was about to fall out of his chair. 

“Look, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “Our families know us. _Gabriel_ knows us. If we show up to this wedding having not held hands or hugged since we were kids, it’s going to be clear that we haven’t _actually_ been doing that sort of thing. So I guess I figured that we should, y’know. Practice.” 

“You want to practice holding hands.” 

“Uh.” When Aziraphale said it like _that,_ it sounded like the dumbest idea Crowley had ever come up with. “Yes?” 

“And you want to…” Aziraphale trailed off, searching Crowley’s face for any sign of ridicule. “You want to hug. Me, you want to hug _me._ ” 

_Only all the time,_ Crowley didn’t say. _I want to hold you. Every day of my life, I want to hold you, you fucking beautiful bastard. Guess it’s good to know that this particular interest is a one-way street._

So Crowley set his jaw, rolled his eyes, and said, “Yes.” 

“For practice.” 

It was all Crowley could do to keep from flinching. 

“Right,” he said. “For practice. So we get good at it.” 

In that moment, Crowley knew that Aziraphale was going to say no. He was going to push back, say that they knew each other better than anyone else and that they’d be fine. Aziraphale had never liked change, and what they were discussing here was quite a lot of it all at once. Even if it was just for show, even if it meant nothing to Aziraphale at all, things would be different after this. They’d be different, and Crowley was sure that Aziraphale was thinking about all of that change and getting ready to run from it. He would want to go back to the way things were, even if it meant confessing to Gabriel that he’d made this all up. 

Crowley didn’t want him to do that. He wanted to hold Aziraphale’s hand, even just for practice. He wanted to feel Aziraphale’s body, soft and round and warm, pressed against his in an embrace. He wanted to fix Aziraphale’s bowtie and run his fingers over the curve of one of Aziraphale’s cheeks. He wanted to do this, because he wanted to let himself believe (for a few weeks, only for a few weeks) that he could have it forever. 

So Crowley was halfway through his mentally-planned speech on why they should do this completely mad thing when Aziraphale sighed and said, “You’re right.” 

Crowley blinked at him. “Sorry, I’m what?” 

“About the practice,” Aziraphale said. He ran a hand over his thighs, letting it stop on his knee again. “You’re right. It makes sense, and I’m alright with it if you are.” 

“Of course I am.” _Because I’m an idiot who fell in love with my best friend and have spent the last five minutes talking him into the idea of touching me more often than is strictly necessary, which I’ve done because I’m so completely gone on him that I would probably saunter my way into Hell if it meant I could hold his hand without an audience._

“Good.” Aziraphale nodded at Crowley. He even tried for a smile. “So that’s settled, then.” 

It was quiet for a few minutes. They didn’t speak to one another, and every time Crowley looked at Aziraphale in an attempt to catch his eye, Aziraphale was staring at his lap. 

“So we’ve been dating for seven months,” Crowley said after the silence had gone on for too long. He tried not to think about the very real possibility that this awkward tension was how things would be from now on. “We’ll have the pictures to prove it, and we’ll hold hands and give hugs and things when we’re around your family, and we’ll, uh. We’ll practice doing those things until the wedding so that it looks natural. Have I got that right?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good. Got anything else for me?” 

Aziraphale dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. His fingers were tapping against the top of his knee. 

And then he said, “I think we need to talk about kissing,” and Crowley dropped his empty tumbler onto the floor. It shattered on impact, sending tiny shards of glass in every direction. 

“Shit,” Crowley said. 

“Rather,” said Aziraphale. “Remind me again where you keep the hoover?” 

“Wait, wait. Can we leave it? Just for… for a minute, I swear.” Crowley swallowed hard. “It sounded like you had, uh. Raised an important thing, there.” 

Aziraphale went very pink in the cheeks. “Kissing, yes. What do we — how do you feel about the prospect of kissing?” 

This was a complicated question, and Crowley didn’t have much time to answer it. If he hesitated, Aziraphale would back down. He’d apologize, and that would rip jagged holes in Crowley’s heart, and so Crowley couldn’t hesitate for long. The problem was that Crowley’s brain had two very different opinions on the matter of kissing Aziraphale. The rational part of his brain stamped the idea with a red-inked, bold-fonted ‘no.’ If Aziraphale kissed him, it wouldn’t be real. It wouldn’t be for the right reasons. It would all be nothing but smoke and mirrors, but that wouldn’t stop Crowley’s stupidly lovesick heart from hoping it was something more. But the side of Crowley’s brain that was hardwired to that stupid lovesick heart was all in favor of the kissing. If Aziraphale was willing, that part of Crowley’s brain was, too. 

In the interest of preserving his dignity, Crowley decided to avoid answering that question. Unfortunately, he had no back-up plan and no exit strategy, so his shock-and-alcohol addled brain picked up his foot and shoved it into his mouth. 

“It’s not like we haven’t done it before.” 

Aziraphale laughed, and it sounded like choking. “That was _once._ ” 

“I know.” 

“We were sixteen, Crowley.” 

In spite of everything, Crowley felt himself starting to smile. 

“I know.” 

“It was— we were playing a game,” Aziraphale said, and when he looked at Crowley, he was smiling, too.

“I _know._ ” 

Aziraphale’s fingers were rubbing at the outer seam of his trousers. It was one of his ‘Things,’ like putting sticks in a line or twisting the ring on his pinky finger. He’d never grown out of them because they’d never stopped helping him think. 

“You were my first kiss,” Aziraphale said softly. He was still smiling, and it made Crowley’s heart do a strange twisting motion. “Did I ever tell you that?” 

“No,” said Crowley. Aziraphale had, for whatever reason, never mentioned that particular fact, but Crowley didn’t have the time to dwell on it now. 

“It was a good one, in case you’re wondering.” Aziraphale’s smile had curled up at one corner, making it something closer to a teasing smirk. And that was good, because that was normal.

“I bloody know it was. I was there, wasn’t I?” 

“You were.” 

“So it should be fine, then,” Crowley said quickly, ignoring the claxons blaring in the rational side of his mind. “Us kissing, I mean. Was fine the first time ‘round, so it should be fine now. But only if it’s, uh. If it’s a thing you think we’ll have to do.” 

The muscles in Aziraphale’s face tightened slightly, but he kept smiling. “I think it might come up, yes. And if it helps, we can think of it as… as a new game, I suppose.” 

“Right.” Crowley scratched the back of his head, swallowing the lump that had risen in his throat. “Doesn’t have to mean anything, then.”

“That’s right.” 

“Good,” Crowley forced himself to say. The word tasted like acid. “Good, yeah.” 

Aziraphale finished the remaining liquor in his glass and set it back on the coffee table. 

“Now that we have that settled, where do you keep your hoover?” 

\-- _2006_

Crowley was walking next to Aziraphale, swinging a long stick through the tall grass in long, sweeping strokes. 

“I just don’t think the film’s as good,” Aziraphale said. “The novel’s better.” 

“Haven’t read it, don’t want to, still know you’re wrong,” Crowley teased. “I mean, c’mon. How good can a swordfight really be in a book, anyway?” 

Aziraphale huffed. “ _Very._ The writing is so clever, Crowley, and it’s certainly entertaining.” 

He talked like a man three times his age, which was more than a little bit odd. Crowley had never minded it. But because they were in secondary school, some of the other boys made fun of Aziraphale for the way he talked and dressed and acted. Crowley always defended him, even going so far once as to throw a punch at a bigger boy just so Aziraphale wouldn’t have to. He’d been suspended for that, and his mum had been furious, but Aziraphale had come over that afternoon with a packet of fig rolls and a book. They hadn’t said much to each other; Crowley had watched something on telly while Aziraphale read, and they’d shared the whole packet of biscuits. Aziraphale had gone home that night with a shy smile and a murmured “Thank you,” and that had been enough to make Crowley certain that he’d do it all over again if Aziraphale needed him to. 

At the moment, though, Aziraphale was insulting Crowley’s favorite movie, and Crowley wasn’t going to stand by and watch it happen. He twisted around and poked the end of the stick between Aziraphale’s ribs, just hard enough to make Aziraphale jump. 

“I bet I can beat you,” Crowley said. “C’mon, find a branch like mine. We’ll see if your rubbish book is good enough.” 

“I’m not— _no,_ absolutely not.” 

Crowley thought that Aziraphale was very cute when he got flustered, so he poked him again. 

“Film’s better, then,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale stiffened. “No.” 

“I’ll be Westley.” Crowley dropped his foot back into a (rather bad) fighting stance. “You be Inigo.” 

“I am _not_ Inigo,” Aziraphale said, but he started looking for a long stick anyway. “I don’t know who I am, but I am definitely not Inigo.” 

“Maybe you’re Buttercup,” Crowley suggested. “She’s pretty and blond, so’re you. Works.” 

Aziraphale stopped his search, turning toward Crowley with a tiny smile on his lips. 

“Pretty?” 

Crowley felt heat flood his cheeks. Calling your best mate ‘pretty’ was _definitely_ a violation of whatever sort of bro-code was supposed to exist in friendships like these, so Crowley ducked his head and waited for Aziraphale to tease him. 

Aziraphale didn’t. Instead, he said, “Farm Boy, fetch me a drink,” and Crowley almost choked on his tongue. 

“Aziraphale, what’re you playing at?” 

“If I’m Buttercup and you’re Westley, I get to give you orders, and you have to carry them out,” Aziraphale said with an involuntary wiggle of his shoulders. 

The bastard was _enjoying_ this. 

“Fine,” Crowley said, and he held his water bottle out to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale didn’t take it. 

“You said it wrong.” 

Crowley stared at him. “You’re havin’ me on.” 

“Farm Boy,” Aziraphale said again, brown eyes flashing with mirth, “fetch me a drink.” 

Crowley held his water out again, and this time, he said it right. 

“As you wish.” 

Aziraphale took the water, uncapped it, and drank from it. He handed it back to Crowley. 

“Farm Boy, bring me some flowers.” 

Crowley hated how much he liked Aziraphale. It was annoying. 

But he said, “As you wish,” and walked down the path to where a clump of purple flowers (Betony, he’d later learn) were growing. He snapped off three stems and carried them back to where Aziraphale was standing. 

Aziraphale took them, and true to Buttercup’s character, didn’t utter a word of thanks. He simply pressed his nose to them, closing his eyes and sighing happily at the floral scent. And then he turned on his heel and started walking again, motioning for Crowley to follow. 

It went like this for the next hour. Aziraphale would think of something he wanted, or something he wanted to see Crowley do, and Crowley would do it. For his part, Crowley was trying very hard not to think about the fact that when Westley said ‘As you wish,’ he really meant ‘I love you.’

By the time they made it home, the sun was setting, and it was turning Aziraphale’s hair to gold. Crowley was staring — he knew he was staring, too, but he couldn’t seem to stop — and Aziraphale was staring right back. 

Without saying anything, Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by the elbow and pulled him into a nearby alley. Three stalks of Betony stood in the front pocket of Aziraphale’s trousers, the tops pressing into the rounded curve of his belly. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, and there were tiny beads of sweat on his nose, and Crowley _couldn’t stop staring at him._

“You don’t have to do this one if you don’t want to,” Aziraphale said softly. 

“Okay.” 

“Really, Crowley,” Aziraphale said again. 

“I don’t have to do it. Okay.” Another little smile broke over Aziraphale’s lips, and Crowley smiled back. “Ask me.” 

Aziraphale straightened up. Stuck his nose in the air, sniffed a bit. At his side, his fingers rubbed at the seam of his trousers. 

And then, “Farm Boy, kiss me.” 

Crowley didn’t have the good sense to blush. He didn’t have the self-restraint to disobey. He didn’t have the presence of mind to consider what this meant, because the boy he fancied had asked him for a kiss, and that wasn’t a thing he was about to fuck around with.

So without thinking, blinking, breathing, or waiting, Crowley said, “As you wish,” and pulled Aziraphale in by the waist. 

It was a short kiss, close-mouthed (which was how Crowley preferred his kisses, if he was honest) and gentle. Aziraphale’s mouth was warm under Crowley’s, and Crowley wanted to keep kissing him forever. 

He didn’t get forever, though, because Aziraphale pulled away after what couldn’t have been more than four or five seconds. His eyes were wide, full of shock and something else Crowley had never seen before. He stepped back slowly, and Crowley’s hands fell away from his hips. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. 

He practically ran away, leaving Crowley standing alone in an alley. 

They didn’t talk about the kiss for fourteen years. 

\-- _2020_

In the week that had passed since the conversation about practicing, Crowley had held Aziraphale’s hand four times. He’d initiated it twice, and Aziraphale had done the same. On every occasion, they’d been in a public place. The moment they entered the bookshop or crossed the threshold of Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale’s hand slipped out of his like it had never been there. 

Aziraphale had done the hand-taking tonight, and Crowley was trying to keep his hand from sweating and shaking too much. They were walking through Soho on their way back from dinner (Thai, Crowley’s favorite), and the bookshop had just come into view. 

Crowley prepared himself for the feeling of his hand falling to his side again. It was coming, only a minute or so away, and it was best to be prepared. The first time Aziraphale had dropped Crowley’s hand like it had burned him, Crowley had had to stifle a protest. He’d had to remind himself that this was all a ruse, all for the sake of pulling Gabriel’s head out of his ass. It was better not to feel like that again. 

Aziraphale unlocked the front door with his hand still in Crowley’s, chattering on about a book he’d found in Paris that was worth some ridiculous amount of money. Crowley was contributing in grunts and the occasional questions of interest, but his mind was elsewhere. He was ready for Aziraphale to let go of his hand, but that didn’t stop him from trying to memorize the way it felt. 

It was because of this that Crowley didn’t notice that Aziraphale kept hold of his hand all the way to the shop’s backroom. In fact, he only realized that Aziraphale was still holding his hand when Aziraphale dropped it. 

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley felt like Aziraphale had hit him in the stomach. 

“Don’t be,” Crowley said with false nonchalance. “ _I’m_ sorry — I shouldn’t have come in, actually. I’ve got an early meeting with Beez tomorrow, so I should, ah. Should go.” 

“Would you mind staying for one more minute?” 

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Why? I mean, sure, but why?” 

“How would you feel about practicing something else tonight?” Aziraphale’s voice was tight, like it would have been shaking if he hadn’t been stopping it. 

Shit. The other things. 

“Which ‘something else’?” Crowley asked. 

“The, ah.” Aziraphale gestured to Crowley’s face. “The kissing one.” 

“Oh.” 

“Is that alright?” 

_No,_ said the rational part of Crowley’s brain. 

_Yes,_ said the part connected to his heart. 

_As you wish,_ said a voice that Crowley had grown out of fourteen years before. 

Crowley said, “Sure.” 

Kissing Aziraphale was different this time. Crowley had to lean down quite a bit more than he had when they were sixteen — he’d hit a final growth spurt at seventeen, and Aziraphale hadn’t — and Aziraphale’s lips were colder, and Crowley was aware of the fact that he was in love with his best friend. 

It changed things, that last bit. The butterflies in Crowley’s stomach were bigger this time, and much stronger, but they were also duller in color. They weren’t bright because they couldn’t be. Crowley was in love with Aziraphale, but Aziraphale wasn’t in love with him, and that was just the way that things were. 

Unconsciously, Crowley’s hands drifted forward and outward, landing on Aziraphale’s hips. He pulled Aziraphale closer by the waist, just as he’d done in that alley all those years ago, and this time, Aziraphale hummed against his lips. 

The kiss lasted longer this time, too. It was still chaste, two closed mouths pressed together, but it was longer. Aziraphale was kissing Crowley back, something that hadn’t happened in any definitive way the first time (which, given the knowledge that Aziraphale hadn’t kissed anyone before that, actually made quite a lot of sense), and Crowley’s head was spinning with it. 

Eventually, after somewhere close to half a minute, Aziraphale stepped back. He pulled away first. 

He always pulled away first. 

Crowley’s thoughts were jumbled-up messes of words, sentences that were knotted and tangled together. He couldn’t think of the right thing to say. He didn’t know how to do this. He wasn’t allowed to ask Aziraphale to kiss him again. 

So Crowley said, “Thank you,” and he pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead before walking out the door.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The specifics of their fake-dating-arrangement come to a point at which more discussion is needed, and more of Crowley's past is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't supposed to be up until Monday, but due to the fact that I'm going to have a hectic-as-hell next calendar week, I thought I'd go ahead and drop this now. There's a chance that chapter four will be up on Monday, but we'll have to play it by ear. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your incredible comments! I promise I will reply to them soon; I'm working through replying to my comment backlog at the moment, but please know that comments are my fuel as a writer, so I am very grateful for you all!! I hope you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> Warnings: language

_\-- 2009_

Crowley was pacing the length of the train platform, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He’d been here for a quarter of an hour, but with the way time was moving (through molasses, and with frequent stops), it felt like a quarter of a decade. A train would pull into the station soon, and the love of Crowley’s life would get off of it, and Crowley would have to pretend like Aziraphale was nothing more than his best friend. He’d have to act like he’d truly moved on, because that was what he’d told Aziraphale he’d done. That was the only reason Aziraphale had agreed to come up for a visit, really. 

A bell chimed, and an automated voice announced the arrival of the ten-twenty train from London. Crowley stopped his pacing as the train slid to a stop, opting to lean his shoulder against the wall and try to look bored. 

Passengers disembarked in a slow stream. Some stopped to adjust their grips on their luggage, others greeted friends or family with a hug or a kiss. Most kept walking, heads tilted down and eyes forward, not wanting to stop for anything or anyone. 

Minutes passed, and there was no Aziraphale. 

They’d talked about this. He’d called Aziraphale last night to confirm that Aziraphale was coming, and Aziraphale had emailed him all of the pertinent information about arrival time and platform number. Crowley had thought that Aziraphale had sounded excited, but he must have been wrong. 

Something close to anger flared hot in Crowley’s chest. What kind of best friend bailed on a weekend holiday? 

With a sigh, Crowley turned and followed the last few stragglers from the train, shoulders slumping forward as he walked. 

And then a bright voice said, “Crowley!” and Crowley spun back around. 

Aziraphale was standing on the platform with a leather messenger bag slung across his body. One of his hands was wrapped around the straps of a duffel bag, and the other was holding a book. His forefinger was wedged between the pages. 

“Hi,” Crowley said, trying not to sound too relieved. “I thought… never mind. Hi.” 

The duffel bag in Aziraphale’s hand fell to the floor. Aziraphale crossed to where Crowley was standing, raising himself up onto his toes to throw his book-less arm around Crowley’s neck. 

Crowley froze. They hadn’t hugged since before the night Crowley had said a very stupid, very important thing and Aziraphale hadn’t said it back. They didn’t— this wasn’t what they did, not anymore. 

It took a few moments for Aziraphale to realize that Crowley wasn’t hugging him back, but when he did realize, Crowley felt it. Aziraphale’s soft body went stiff, and the arm that was pulling Crowley down into an embrace retreated to Aziraphale’s side. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley a smile that turned Crowley’s insides to mush. “It’s good to see you.” 

“Yeah.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair. “You, too. Need help with your bags?” 

“I think I’ll manage, but thank you.” The duffel bag was retrieved from the ground, and Aziraphale motioned with his head for Crowley to lead the way.

Crowley did, staying a half-step ahead of Aziraphale as they walked silently through the station. He held the door open at the exit, and Aziraphale walked out into the rain. 

Tiny creases appeared on the bridge of Aziraphale’s nose. “I will never understand why you moved to Scotland. It rains more here than it does back home.” 

“School,” Crowley said. He led Aziraphale across the street into the car park, wishing desperately that he’d remembered to bring his umbrella. The rain was settling in Aziraphale’s curls, crushing them down and catching in the light of the overhead lamps.

“There are schools in London, Crowley,” Aziraphale replied with a sigh. “You could’ve gone to one of those.” 

_I might’ve done, if things had been different,_ thought Crowley. _Might’ve stayed, might not have run. I guess we’ll never know._

Crowley swallowed those thoughts and said, “Better horticulture program up here,” before taking Aziraphale’s bags and putting them into the boot of his car. 

When Crowley looked up again, a fake easy-looking smile on his face, Aziraphale was staring at him, and the words he was planning to say died in his throat. It was an inconvenient thing, having a best friend who practically knew you as well as you knew yourself. He could tell when you were lying, for one thing. 

Thankfully, Aziraphale didn’t comment, and he slid into the passenger seat of Crowley’s beat-up black Volkswagen without so much as a nod to acknowledge what Crowley had said. 

The first half of the drive to Crowley’s flat was spent in tense silence. Three times, Crowley thought about starting a conversation, but anything he thought to talk about seemed hollow and ridiculous in the face of all that he wasn’t saying. There was nothing solid, nothing _real,_ about asking Aziraphale what books he was reading for class when what Crowley wanted to be saying was ‘I still am, you know. In love with you.’ So Crowley opted not to say anything, and he prayed to gods he didn’t believe in that the entire weekend wouldn’t be like this. 

A polite-sounding cough came from Aziraphale’s side of the car, and Crowley glanced over at him. 

“What name are you using now?” Aziraphale asked quietly. “It was… was it Asher over the summer, or was that the time before?” 

“Asher was the summer,” Crowley said with a smirk. “Didn’t stick. I liked it well enough, but it seemed, uh. Too gentle, I guess?” 

Aziraphale scoffed, and Crowley caught sight of blond curls shaking slightly. “You _are_ gentle.”

“‘M not,” Crowley protested. “Definitely not.” 

“You _are,_ ” Aziraphale said again, as if repeating the concept would make Crowley buy into it. “Regardless, though. It’s something else now?” 

“AJ,” Crowley said. 

The movement of Aziraphale’s eyebrow up his forehead was almost audible. 

“Oh?” 

“I don’t hate James as much as I used to.” Crowley jerked the steering wheel to the right and veered around a sharp corner, causing the driver behind him to lay on their horn and making Aziraphale stifle a surprised yelp. “And I liked the ‘A’ in Asher — it was the rest of the letters that were the problem.” 

“So the ‘J’ is for James, then,” Aziraphale said, smoothing his hands down the front of his jumper. “What’s the ‘A’ for?” 

“Haven’t decided.” 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Do you… I don’t know, would you like help choosing a name?” 

Crowley nearly drove into a telephone pole. “Eh?”

“You can say no,” Aziraphale said quickly. “It was— don’t worry about it. It was a silly idea. I’m sorry.” 

“Wasn’t silly,” Crowley said. He pulled into the car park behind the building that housed his university-provided student flat, and he was so wrapped up in the thought of the man he loved helping him choose a name that he actually used his indicator when he made the turn. “I would… y’know, yeah. You can help. I’d, uh. Like that.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes brightened, and his hand came to rest momentarily on Crowley’s arm, giving it a squeeze. Crowley nearly drove into a lamppost. 

“Oh, good.” Aziraphale’s voice was slightly squeaky, pitched up in the way it always was when he got excited about something. It was adorable, and Crowley’s scarred and stitched together heart twisted inside of his chest. “We should try other ‘A’ names first, then, I think.” 

Crowley whipped the Volkswagen into an open parking space and threw the gear shift into park. He pressed his hands to his thighs, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Aziraphale had come up to visit him, that Aziraphale was sitting in his car talking about helping Crowley pick a name. Crowley had been changing his name for years, trying new ones on as soon as he got tired of or found problems with the previous. It had annoyed his mum to no end at first, but eventually she’d gotten used to the ever-changing state of his first name. 

Aziraphale, though, had never called Crowley anything but ‘Crowley.’ The way he said it was soft and lovely, and some part of Crowley was very suddenly afraid that if he let Aziraphale help him find a new name, Aziraphale would never call him ‘Crowley’ again. 

Instead of voicing this, though, Crowley swallowed the lump in his throat and let out a strangled sort of laugh. “You want to start now?” 

“Why wouldn’t we?” 

Crowley shrugged. “Dunno. Just seems… sudden, I suppose.” 

The light in Aziraphale’s eyes flickered and dimmed, and Crowley felt like he’d been punched in the throat. _Not good, not good, not good._

“‘S not a bad thing,” Crowley corrected quickly. “Not… never mind. It’s fine.” 

Aziraphale was smiling now, but it looked forced. It was almost cold, and all of the sunlight-warmth that Crowley associated with Aziraphale’s happiness was missing. He was _trying_ to be happy, trying to skirt around the truth that both he and Crowley knew: that this was awkward, this whole thing was awkward, because Crowley had opened his dumb mouth a few months ago and said that he was in love with Aziraphale. There was probably no coming back from that, much as he and Aziraphale would both like there to be. 

Aziraphale was evidently thinking along similar lines, because he shrunk back against the seat and said, “We don’t have to do this, you know.” 

Something slimy and frozen crept through Crowley’s veins, and he forgot how to breathe.

“Do what?” 

“The name thing,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley sucked in a shuddering breath. Aziraphale wasn’t leaving, then. Not yet. “I just thought I might be of use — all those books I read, you know — but it’s perfectly okay if you’d rather figure it out on your own.” 

“I… no, I wouldn’t.” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and Crowley wanted to kiss him. But this was not a thing he could do, not a thing he could even _want_ to do, if he wanted Aziraphale to continue to be his friend.

Crowley was slowly coming to terms with this reality. There would be no kisses. There wouldn’t be a time where his hands could rest on Aziraphale’s hips, no moments where Aziraphale’s fingers would get tangled in his hair. He wouldn’t walk hand-in-hand with Aziraphale, wouldn’t dance to slow songs with Aziraphale in his arms. There was no version of the future in which Crowley could have Aziraphale as anything more than a friend. And so he had set about the task of destroying the dreams he’d been storing in his head, popping them like soap bubbles and driving cracks into the rose-colored lenses he’d worn for years. 

So Crowley said, “I mean it,” and when he smiled, he drove a sledgehammer through the thought that he’d ever feel Aziraphale’s lips under his again. “What name ideas have you got?” 

Aziraphale went thoughtfully quiet as he got out of the car and pulled his luggage out of the boot. It wasn’t until they reached the door to Crowley’s apartment building that Aziraphale looked up with a (warm, thank Someone) half-smile and said, “Aaron.” 

Crowley snorted. “No.” 

“Why?” 

“Do I look like an Aaron to you?” 

Aziraphale frowned at him, cocked his head to the side. “Maybe.” 

“I don’t,” Crowley said confidently. He pushed the button for the lift. “C’mon, what else?” 

There were a few moments of quiet, and then, “August? Bit different, that. Not too boring.”

“Don’t want to be named after a month.” 

Suggestions like Alex and Adrian were rejected outright on the lift ride up to Crowley’s flat. Crowley laughed off the idea of Anders (“I’m not bloody Swedish, Aziraphale”), and he only momentarily considered Atticus while he put the kettle on before getting rid of that option as well. Arthur wasn’t given anything more than a headshake. Austin, Andrew, and Archer were vetoed in quick succession over a plate of biscuits. 

“I think I might be rather close to running out of ideas,” Aziraphale confessed after a period of silence. “What do you usually look for in a name, anyway? I think that would have been useful information to have from the start, really.” 

Crowley shrugged and drained the last of his tea. “Dunno. They have to… have to fit.” 

“But they don’t ever, do they?” Aziraphale asked as he nibbled on a biscuit.

“What?” 

“Fit,” Aziraphale said. “You change your name all the time, Crowley, so clearly you haven’t found a name that fits quite yet.” 

Crowley stared at him. “Guess— yeah, I guess I haven’t.” 

“So we ought to find one that fits better, yes?” 

“Sure,” Crowley said with a shrug. 

Aziraphale grinned, and Crowley loved him. 

And then it was, “What about Axel?” and Crowley forced himself to refocus his attention on the task at hand. 

“Axel,” Crowley said slowly. “Mm. Maybe.” 

“Maybe,” Aziraphale agreed with a nod. “Shall we keep going?” 

The right name came hours later, thrown out into the middle of a conversation that had long since moved past the topic of Crowley’s name. They were sitting in Crowley’s bedroom, a bottle of cheap wine open on the desk. Aziraphale was perched on the edge of Crowley’s bed, straight-backed and holding his red plastic cup like it was a wine glass. It was ridiculously prim and proper, and in comparison to the way Crowley was sprawled across the rug, leaning back on his elbows and taking clumsy sips of wine, it was more than a little bit funny. 

This is why Crowley was giggling into his cup when Aziraphale sat up impossibly straighter and said, “Anthony.” 

Crowley stopped laughing. “Eh?” 

A little smile crept across Aziraphale’s lips as he repeated, “Anthony. What do you think of that one?” 

“Huh.” 

Aziraphale shifted slightly, a little wiggling motion. “I think… well, it doesn’t matter what _I_ think, does it?” 

“Does a bit,” Crowley said in a moment of alcohol-born vulnerability. “So, Anthony. _Anthony._ Mm.” 

“I like it,” Aziraphale said quietly. “For whatever it’s worth.” 

It was worth quite a lot, so Crowley rolled the name around on his tongue again. “Anthony.” 

“Maybe?” Aziraphale asked, a sliver of poorly-masked hope creeping into his voice. 

“Definitely maybe.” 

Aziraphale wiggled again and took a sip of his wine. “Should I keep—” 

“No,” Crowley said quickly. “Might, ah. Might give Anthony a try.” 

\-- _2020_

The name stared up at him from the back of a photograph. _Anthony._ It was pressed into the paper with black ink, and the letters were all done in Aziraphale’s soft-looking handwriting.

Crowley flipped the photograph over and tried not to let himself think that they looked very convincing. It was a selfie from a few days prior — they’d been on a walk, and Aziraphale had fancied stopping for an ice cream, so Crowley had bought him one. Vanilla cone with a flake for Aziraphale, strawberry lolly for himself. And then Aziraphale had said, “I think we ought to take a photograph, don’t you?” and Crowley had momentarily forgotten that they were pretending. He’d forgotten that the picture would be used as evidence, a prop to legitimize a lie, and so he’d smiled. He had smiled (grinned, really) and leaned down, and Aziraphale had snapped the picture. 

The photo _looked_ like a prop, now, because Aziraphale had printed it off. Crowley couldn’t figure out why he’d done that — it wasn’t like Gabriel was going to go snooping through Aziraphale’s flat, probably — but Aziraphale’s written note on the back side of the picture was proof positive that it had something to do with their ruse. Aziraphale had never called him Anthony. Not once in eleven years. And yet he’d written it on the back of this stupid bloody picture of the two of them together, holding ice cream and smiling, looking for all the world like a couple in love. 

Crowley hated it, so he set the photograph back down on Aziraphale’s kitchen table and forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat. He would have succeeded, too, had Aziraphale not snuck up behind him and set a warm hand on his back. 

“Hhn,” Crowley choked. “Shit, sorry. Didn’t hear you come upstairs. Was just gonna sit on the sofa, wait till you closed up.” 

“So the snooping was unintentional, then?” There was something almost teasing about the tone of the question, but that lightness had holes in it. Pinpricks of something darker, something Crowley couldn’t quite identify. 

“Wasn’t _snooping,_ ” Crowley protested. “It was on the table. Right in plain sight. I can’t be blamed for seeing it, can I?” 

Aziraphale laughed, his soft body shaking with it, and Crowley thought he was beautiful. He never didn’t, of course, but he loved to see Aziraphale laugh. He loved the redness that colored those round cheeks, the gentle side-to-side shake of the head that Aziraphale always did when his laugh tapered off into warm silence, the bits of brightness that took up residence in Aziraphale’s eyes. He was beautiful, and Crowley couldn’t tell him. 

“I suppose you can’t,” Aziraphale said on the tail end of a chuckle. “I should have known that you’d take a look around.” 

“Did you not want me to see it, then?” 

The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth turned down. “No, no. It’s just… well, it’s my mum. She wants— she wants a picture, something to frame.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “We shouldn’t. Things like that, things that are—” He broke off, searching for a word that was better than _real_ “—permanent… those things aren’t, uh. Right. I dunno. It feels wrong, like we’re giving them false hope.” 

Aziraphale made a wounded sort of sound, so quiet that Crowley thought he might have imagined it. 

“It just doesn’t seem fair,” Crowley said lamely. “To them, I mean. Not— not to us. We’re fine, of course _we’re_ fine, but our mums? We shouldn’t do that.” 

“Okay,” Aziraphale said with a little nod. “Yes, you’re… yes. I suppose I ought to call her back, tell her I couldn’t find anything.” 

“Wait.” Crowley took a steadying breath, told himself that Aziraphale just hadn’t been thinking. He hadn’t been thinking about how his mum would feel having to throw that picture away, hadn’t thought about Crowley’s mum seeing it in her living room, about Gabriel noticing it being there and then being gone. Aziraphale hadn’t been thinking. Surely that was the reason for this. “If you’ve already told her you’ll send something, then you’ve got to. Would look weird if you didn’t, now. So we’ve just… this has got to be it, okay? Nothing else.” 

“Nothing else,” Aziraphale agreed, and he gave Crowley’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Alright.” 

Crowley looked away, terrified that Aziraphale would find something in his expression to ask about. It was better if Aziraphale couldn’t see that this was hurting him, that all of this was a series of tiny cuts across his ever-bleeding heart. So he looked down at the table and immediately regretted it. He could still see the words on the back of the picture. 

_‘With Anthony. Sept 2020.’_

“Anthony,” Crowley said abruptly, and he heard Aziraphale’s breath catch. 

“Sorry?” 

“You’ve written ‘Anthony,’ not ‘Crowley.’” 

Aziraphale shifted his weight. His fingers laced themselves together, pressed themselves against the roundness of his belly. “Yes.” 

“Why?” Crowley wrangled his face into what he hoped was a passing impression of curiosity and confusion and raised his eyes to Aziraphale’s once more. 

“I thought it might seem strange for me to still call you by your surname.” 

“You’ve always called me by my surname,” Crowley pointed out.

“Yes, but that was… well, you know. That was then.” 

“Then?” 

Aziraphale looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. “Yes. Then, before all of this.” 

“This is nothing,” Crowley spat. He knew that he shouldn’t be angry, shouldn’t be upset. He’d signed on for this. But now things were changing _concretely,_ and he’d hoped they could avoid that. They could kiss and not mean it, hug and not mean it, hold hands and not mean it. Take bloody photographs and go on bloody dates and _not mean any of it_. And then they could go to the wedding, false romance written in their bodies and falling from their lips, and that would be that. After the wedding, Crowley would make himself go back to normal, back to going to dinner and drinking in the bookshop and complaining about his job, and all of the fake stuff could be over. Crowley could put it in the past. But Aziraphale was sending one of their fake bloody photographs to his mother, and he was referring to Crowley as ‘Anthony’ (not out loud, not yet, but that was certainly imminent), and things were changing. Crowley’s control of this situation was slipping through his fingers like water, like steam, and he didn’t know how to deal with that. So he said, “It’s _nothing,_ Aziraphale. Would you stop— would you just bloody stop this?” 

Aziraphale’s chest still didn’t move. It was as though his lungs had fallen flat, every muscle in his body frozen in place. He just stood with his hands clasped in front of himself, and he stared. 

When Aziraphale spoke, the words were small. “Stop what?” 

“Stop changing things.” Crowley tucked his chin into his chest, scratched at the hair on the back of his neck. Tried to get himself together, tried to grab at the last remnants of his self-control. “We said this would be fine. You said it would be fine.” 

“No, I didn’t,” Aziraphale said softly. “ _You_ said it would be fine. _I_ said it would hurt you.” 

He had, Crowley realized. He had said that. He’d said that he didn’t want to hurt Crowley like this again. He’d given Crowley every opportunity to get out, every chance to get away. But Crowley hadn’t taken those avenues, because he loved Aziraphale. He was a lovesick fool who’d convinced himself that they could do this, could act like they were a couple, without anything having to change. 

He’d been an idiot for even thinking that. From the second he’d agreed to this scheme — he’d almost pushed Aziraphale into it, actually — he should have known that things would change. They were always going to, really. It was just ridiculous that it had been his bloody _name_ of all things, the name Aziraphale had helped him choose, was the catalyst for his realizing it. 

“Sorry.” Crowley swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “No. You shouldn’t be. I got us into this mess, and I let myself… I let myself change things, and I let myself damage our friendship, and I’ve not got the faintest idea why.” 

“To protect yourself,” Crowley muttered. “No, actually, you did this because _I_ wanted to protect you from your wanker of a step-brother. And you didn’t do anything wrong today. I’m the one who threw a fit over my own damn name and a fucking photograph. It’s not you.” 

“We can’t do this.” 

Crowley’s head snapped up. “What?” 

“You’re right,” Aziraphale said. He was wringing his hands now, tugging at his own fingers. “This is— this is changing things. Let me call my mum and explain everything. I’ll ask her to call Gabriel, because I don’t feel like getting into this with him at the moment.” 

“Aziraphale, wait—” 

“I’ll even call your mother, if you want,” Aziraphale said with all the sincerity of someone taking an oath in court. “I know that things will be complicated, and I’ll imagine she’ll be confused and want to speak to you, but you can put it back on me. This is my mess.” 

“Aziraphale.” 

“Crowley, please.” The sound of his name stopped Crowley from opening his mouth in protest. Aziraphale hadn’t said ‘Anthony.’ He’d said ‘Crowley’, and in defiancé of all reason or rationality, Crowley felt himself begin to smile. “I refuse to lose you because of this situation, do you understand me? I will _not_ lose you, not for this. Not for anything, if I can help it.” 

“You haven’t lost me,” Crowley said. “You haven’t. You won’t.” 

“I can’t know that for sure.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Crowley insisted, and he wasn’t surprised to find that he meant it. He was going to stay for the same reason he’d agreed to this in the first place: because loving Aziraphale was part of him, had been part of him for years. Aziraphale was kind. He was impossibly gentle, more than a little bit fussy, and delightfully fun to be around. He was brilliant and funny and generous, and Crowley loved him. Crowley loved him romantically, yes, but he also loved him in other ways. Aziraphale was his best friend, his confidant, his safest place. Aziraphale was the first person with whom Crowley shared good news, the first phone call after a bad day. Aziraphale was more than the object of Crowley’s romantic attraction, and Crowley could have kicked himself for forgetting that. He loved Crowley in the little things, and Crowley loved him for that. 

Aziraphale fiddled with the bottom hem of his waistcoat for a moment. 

And then he said, “You are the most important thing in my life, you know,” and Crowley felt his heart skip a few too many beats. 

“Oh,” said Crowley. 

“And because of that, I am not going to continue in this ridiculous endeavor of ours if it has any chance of jeopardizing your future presence in my life.” 

“No chance of that.” 

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. Crowley could hear it whistling between his teeth. 

“You have to promise that you will still be here,” Aziraphale said, eyes wide. “After all of this is done.” 

“I promise,” Crowley said instantly. 

Aziraphale’s smile was fragile, but it was warm. For the moment, that was enough. 

“No ‘Anthony,’ though,” Crowley said, and the smile got a little stronger. 

“Alright.”

“Just Crowley.” 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Crowley.” 

“And let’s not, uh. Let’s not practice, not tonight.” 

“We can just be,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley nodded. “For tonight, we can just be ourselves with each other. No false pretenses, no weddings to think about. Just…” 

“Just us,” Crowley finished, and Aziraphale beamed. 

They went to dinner, and they were themselves. Crowley made Aziraphale laugh, and Aziraphale made Crowley snort so hard that he choked on his wine. They talked about work and poetry and alcohol and music, and they did not talk about Gabriel or home or holding hands. And they didn’t ask the waiter to take their picture, because they weren’t pretending. 

Crowley dropped Aziraphale in front of the bookshop a few hours later, leaving his car idling as he walked Aziraphale to the door. 

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” Aziraphale said. 

Before Crowley could say anything in response, Aziraphale’s hand slid into his. Squeezed his fingers, just once, before falling away. 

Aziraphale disappeared into the bookshop with a smile and a “Goodnight, Crowley.” 

He left Crowley standing on his doorstep, red-faced and grappling with the realization that if they weren’t practicing, then Aziraphale taking his hand was something real. 

Maybe not all changes were something to be afraid of.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day of the wedding, and Crowley is trying hard to savor every moment of it. All goes well until it doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> Please don't be too angry with me for the ending of this chapter -- I'll post again on Thursday, which will be the start of the Soft (TM). These boys are walnuts, but they eventually get their shit together, I swear. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read and commented so far! I'm still working my way through my comment backlog in terms of replies, but I promise that I have read every word of every comment, and I am so grateful to you all. I will reply soon, I promise!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: language

Crowley growled at his reflection in the mirror, tearing the black silk tie free from around his neck and trying (for the fourth time) to tie it successfully. He’d done this at least a hundred times before over the course of his life, but today, he couldn’t seem to manage it. His mind was a few miles away, pacing outside of his best friend’s bookshop, and there was nothing he could do to bring it back to the task at hand. 

“C’mon,” Crowley muttered to himself. “Keep your shit together for one more day, you idiot. One day. And then you can tell Aziraphale that you’ve got busy with work, make up some excuse, and take a bit to compose yourself. Just…” He fumbled with his tie, finally getting the knot to function as it should. “...just don’t fuck it up, Crowley. Not fucking today.” 

Sighing, Crowley straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair. He did actually look rather nice today, not that anyone (Aziraphale) would notice. 

Crowley pulled a face at himself before stepping away from the mirror, tugging on his suit jacket, and heading out of his flat. He only had to survive until tonight, and then he would drop Aziraphale off at the bookshop with a smile and a wave and a “See you later,” and that would be that. Life would be back to normal. Aziraphale would never take his hand again after tonight, of course, would certainly never kiss him again, but that was okay. That was normal. Crowley had been Aziraphale’s best friend for sixteen years, and he wasn’t about to let that go. 

The drive to Soho was a silent one. Crowley brought the Bentley to a stop in front of Aziraphale’s shop and left it idling while he climbed out and knocked on the shop door. 

It opened almost immediately, and Crowley had to stifle a gasp. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d seen Aziraphale in a proper tuxedo — it wasn’t that Aziraphale was ever underdressed; his perpetual waistcoats and bowties were far above what most people would consider to be daily wear, but formalwear was another thing entirely — but it had apparently been long enough that he’d forgotten what Aziraphale looked like in clean lines and black-and-white. 

“Nnh,” Crowley said, immediately trying to smother whatever noise _that_ had been with a cough. “Hi.” 

“Hello, dear.” Aziraphale’s voice was softer than usual, and it was shaking. 

“You look—” _beautiful,_ Crowley’s brain supplied, but his mouth had the good sense not to follow that lead, “—really nice.” 

Aziraphale went pink-cheeked and said, “As do you. Very dashing. I like the eyeliner.” 

“Thanks.” 

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Shall we, then?” 

“Can’t stand around here all day,” Crowley said. 

“No,” Aziraphale said, looking very much like he would like nothing more than to do just that, “we can’t.” 

Crowley gestured to the Bentley, and Aziraphale stepped across the threshold of the shop. He locked the door behind him (and checked the door handle twice to make sure no thieves or greasy-fingered people would be able to go inside and touch his precious books, as he always did) before walking toward the car with short, uneasy steps. 

“Right,” said Crowley when he had settled into the driver’s seat. He glanced over at Aziraphale, who was staring intently at his lap and decidedly not looking back at him. “Off we go, then.” 

Aziraphale’s answering “Yes” was so quiet that it was nearly lost in the rumble of the Bentley’s engine, but Crowley heard it. He heard the way Aziraphale’s voice wobbled on the word, heard the way Aziraphale’s throat closed on a sob. 

“Hey,” Crowley said softly, trying to keep his eyes on the road and stay at a reasonable speed because he’d driven with Aziraphale often enough to know that driving like a bat out of Hell was the fastest way to cause a spike in his friend’s anxiety, “it’s going to be fine.” 

“You say that now.” 

“It’ll be weird, yeah,” Crowley conceded, and Aziraphale offered a bitten-off, hysterical laugh in return, “but we’ll get through it.” 

“Will we?” Crowley could feel Aziraphale looking at him, now, the heat in Aziraphale’s stare threatening to burn a hole in the side of his head. 

“We will.” Crowley said it like a fact, leaving no room for his doubts or Aziraphale’s fear. “And you’ve got to act like you’re happy, ‘kay? You’ve gotta act like nothing’s different, like we’ve been doing this for months.” 

“I have to make this look easy,” Aziraphale muttered, and Crowley felt himself flinch. 

“Yeah,” he said, “we both do. But the good news is that this isn’t your wedding — it’s your bastard of a brother’s. Focus won’t be on us, it’ll be on him and… and…” 

“Sarah,” Aziraphale said. “Really, Crowley. I gave you the invitation, you could have at least glanced at her name.” 

“I hate Gabriel,” Crowley said by way of explanation. When Aziraphale laughed this time, it was lighter, and Crowley smiled. 

“Oh, do you?” Aziraphale was teasing, now, which was even better. “I’m afraid I hadn’t noticed.” 

“Ah, been doing a rubbish job of showing it, then,” Crowley said. “Should show up to this wedding today and be all, ‘Hey, Gabe, you’re a dick! Congrats on the nuptials, many happy returns.’ I think that would get the point across, d’you?” 

Aziraphale belly-laughed at that, and Crowley took his eyes off of the road for just long enough to get a look. He liked seeing that joy on Aziraphale’s face, liked the crinkles around his eyes and the dimples in his cheeks, and he liked that _he_ was the one to put them there most of all. 

“You mustn’t,” Aziraphale said. 

“You sure? I could.” 

“No, don’t.” There was a smile behind the words. Crowley could feel it, warm like the sun on his face. 

“Shame,” said Crowley. “Let me know if you change your mind.” 

The conversation slowed with Aziraphale’s answering giggle and settled into a few moments of comfortable quiet. Carefully and without making any sudden movements, Crowley took his left hand off of the steering wheel and placed it palm-up in the space between himself and Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale took it. 

“We can do this,” Crowley said, all traces of joviality gone from his tone. “More’n that, though, _you_ can do this. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“I’ll be with you the whole time.” 

“I know.” 

“And if you need to leave, I can fake an emergency, and we can go.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. 

“But we’ll make it. You’ll make it. I promise.” 

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s fingers then, warm and soft and strong. “Th-thank you, Crowley.” 

“Nothing to thank me for.” 

“Oh, I’m quite certain you know that’s not true.” 

Crowley pulled the Bentley into the car park of the Savoy Hotel and turned off the engine. “I’d, uh. I’d do anything for you, you know that, right?” 

Aziraphale stared at him. 

“Look, one of my stated goals in life is to spend as little time around Gabriel-bloody-Archer as I can, but you… you asked for my help, Aziraphale. I was never going to say no.” 

“Crowley.” 

“No, hang on, don’t say anything sappy and stupid,” Crowley said, “because then I might cry, and that would ruin my makeup, and I didn’t bring my eyeliner.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” A tiny smile was playing at the corners of Aziraphale’s lips, and Crowley smiled back. 

“You’re my best friend, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “That means I’m here, okay? Whatever you need. Whenever you need it.” _I love you._

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, really. Thank you.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes, but he tossed Aziraphale a wink. “Get out of the car, will you?” 

_\-- 2009. Summer._

Crowley was sitting on the end of Aziraphale’s bed, watching Aziraphale pace around his room. 

“I _like_ Paul,” Aziraphale said, twisting his pinky ring around on his finger like he didn’t know what he’d do if he stopped. “It’s just—” 

“Gabriel the Git,” Crowley finished for him. 

“Yes.” 

“Just because your mum’s gonna marry Paul doesn’t mean you’ve got to suddenly be best mates with his son, y’know.” 

“I know,” Aziraphale said. “But Crowley, he’s… he’s _awful._ He’s rude, and he’s self-important, and he cares entirely too much about what other people think of him.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows shot upward. Aziraphale had never been one to speak ill of anyone, and it took Crowley by surprise. 

“I know that,” Crowley said. “I’ve met him. He’s a—”

“Git, yes, yes,” Aziraphale snapped. “So you keep saying.”

Crowley grinned, leaning back onto his elbows. “Say it again.” 

“No.” Aziraphale had been tugging at his curls. They were unruly and sticking up in strange directions, and Crowley thought he looked adorable (but he wasn’t entertaining thoughts like those, not any more, not after what had happened before they left for university. Nope). 

“Pleeeease.” 

Aziraphale sniffed. “No.” 

“Oh, c’mon, must’ve felt good,” Crowley teased. “Say it again. Git.” 

“You’re insufferable.” 

“Yeah,” said Crowley. 

“I don’t even know what you’re doing here.” 

“You called me,” Crowley reminded him, “because you’re freaked out that your mum’s got engaged and you’re gonna be stuck with a smarmy arsehole of a step-brother for the rest of your life.” 

Aziraphale flopped down on the bed next to Crowley, staring resolutely at the ceiling. “Yes, thank you _ever_ so much for putting it so bluntly, Crowley. Very helpful.” 

“Any time.” 

“Were you always this irritating, or is there something in the air in Scotland?” 

“Always been this irritating,” Crowley said with another grin, rolling over onto his stomach so he could look Aziraphale in the eye. They were both home for the summer holidays, and there seemed to be some sort of unspoken agreement that they would not talk about what had happened the last time they were both in this room. For this, Crowley was thankful. “You must’ve forgotten.” 

Aziraphale went very quiet, then, and Crowley felt his heart skip a beat. 

And then Aziraphale said, “I missed you, Crowley,” and Crowley found that he had the immediate need to look at something that was not Aziraphale’s face. 

“I missed you, too.” 

“I came to visit you this year,” Aziraphale reminded him. “It’s your turn. You have to come down to London and meet some of my friends.” 

Crowley smiled. “Are they all like you? Literature majors with perfect grammar?” 

“Not all of them,” Aziraphale said. “Some of them are… well. Some of them are rather a lot like you.” 

“Mm?” 

“They’re gay and think they’re cooler than me,” Aziraphale teased. 

“Shut up.” 

“No, really,” Aziraphale said, “one of them has tattoos and listens to the same kind of music you do. And he has succulents in his room.” 

“So you’ve replaced me, then,” Crowley said, sticking out his lower lip in a pitiful attempt at a pout. It occurred to him only after he’d spoken that he was only half joking. 

The smile on Aziraphale’s face faltered for a moment. “Never. I like my school friends, Crowley, but no. Never.” 

“Oh.” 

“I just think you’d get on with them, that’s all.” 

“Fine,” Crowley said, resting his chin on his hands. “I’ll come. But just for a weekend, and just to make sure you’re not off having too much fun without me.” 

Aziraphale beamed, and Crowley had to turn away again. It had been nearly a year since the night he’d told Aziraphale he loved him and Aziraphale hadn’t said it back. That should have been enough time for his stupid feelings to fuck off and die, shouldn’t it? It should have been long enough that Aziraphale’s smile shouldn’t have made Crowley want to kiss him. 

“Promise me,” Aziraphale said. “That you’ll come.” 

“I promise.” 

“Good.” 

“And I also promise that if you ever need me to kick Gabriel in the shins, I will do it.” 

Aziraphale laughed. “Crowley, no. He’s twice your size. He’d kill you.” 

“Worth it,” said Crowley. 

When Aziraphale laughed again, Crowley did, too. For that moment, the world had no shadows, and Crowley thought that maybe, if he was very lucky, things might just be alright. 

_\-- 2020_

Gabriel’s wedding was everything Crowley had expected it to be, which was to say that it was simultaneously drab and over-the-top in a way that was making Crowley’s head hurt. It was also painfully obvious that every detail had been picked not based on any sort of taste, but rather based solely on price tags. Gabriel and his new wife had, apparently, spared no expense. This wouldn’t have bothered Crowley if he hadn’t known Gabriel as well as he did; some people just liked the look of expensive things. However, since Crowley _did_ know Gabriel, he suspected that the high-value choices had less to do with personal preference and more to do with rubbing his guests’ noses in his financial success. 

Still, though. At least the champagne was above average. 

Next to Crowley, Aziraphale was talking to one of his mother’s friends, laughing politely at her jokes (which were not, in Crowley’s opinion, funny at all) and carefully avoiding questions about exactly why he hadn’t followed in his step-brother’s career footsteps. Thus far, Aziraphale and Crowley had yet to be cornered by Aziraphale’s mum and step-father, but Crowley was certain they wouldn’t be able to avoid that moment forever. 

“Angel,” Crowley said sweetly. It was one of the pet names that Aziraphale had agreed to let Crowley use today, and Crowley was going to come as close to wearing it out as he ould. He dropped his empty champagne flute on a nearby table and swept up to Aziraphale’s side, taking him by the hand. “We haven’t offered our congratulations to the happy couple yet, and the queue’s gone down a bit.” 

“Ah, thank you, darling,” Aziraphale said. He shot Crowley a grateful smile before politely excusing himself from the conversation he’d been having. 

It wasn’t until they were safely out of earshot that Aziraphale sighed and said, “Goodness. Thank you for the rescue.” 

“I’m good for more than looking pretty, you know,” Crowley teased. “Knight in shining armor, me.” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “A knight in some dark-colored armor, perhaps. You _did_ suggest congratulating my brother as an alternative activity, which leads me to believe you are up to something nefarious.” 

Crowley grinned. “Maybe. I’m very wily.” 

“Behave yourself,” Aziraphale chided. And then he tucked himself closer to Crowley’s side, bringing their bodies together for a moment, and Crowley forgot how to breathe. 

“No, uh. No promises.” 

With their fingers still intertwined, Aziraphale and Crowley joined the shrinking group of people who were waiting to give their best wishes to the happy newlyweds. 

“It’s Sarah, right?” Crowley asked after a moment, smirking down at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale, predictably, huffed at him. “You sat through the entire ceremony, Crowley. Were you even listening to a single word that was said?” 

_No,_ Crowley didn’t say, _I was busy. Otherwise occupied, you see, looking at you. Trying to memorize how it felt to have you sitting next to me, holding my hand._

Instead, he said, “I’m having you on, angel. Sarah. I got it.” 

When they reached the front of the line, Gabriel’s too-wide smile stretched even wider. Crowley wondered if he’d ever pulled a muscle in his jaw. 

“Az!” Gabriel cried, reaching out one perfectly-tanned hand and clapping it down on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale winced. “Glad you _and_ your plus one could make it today. Really, I am. Good to see you.” 

“Well, congratulations to you both,” Aziraphale said tightly. 

“Hi,” said Crowley, and Gabriel’s shark-like eyes moved away from Aziraphale. “Been a minute, Gabriel. Many happy returns to you and Sarah.” 

“Thanks, Anthony,” Gabriel said. He turned to his wife, a short woman with long brown hair that had been pinned up in some elaborate curled bun. “Babe, this is my step-brother Az and his boyfriend, Anthony.” 

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale corrected, gaze fixed on Sarah. “Congratulations, my dear. It was a beautiful ceremony.” 

“Really was,” Crowley added drily, giving Aziraphale’s hand a squeeze. 

“Thank you,” Sarah said. “Gabriel did most of the choosing, you know, but he’s got more of an eye for these sorts of things.” 

“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley. “Crushed it, mate.” 

“Anyway,” Aziraphale interrupted, giving one of Crowley’s knuckles a sharp pinch, “we’d best let you greet the rest of your revelers. Happiest of days to you both.”

“Enjoy the party,” said Sarah. 

“I’m really glad you found someone, Az,” Gabriel said, and Crowley was overcome by the sudden urge to flip a table. “It’s never any fun to go to weddings alone, but I know you know all about that!” 

“Quite,” Aziraphale said. “Goodbye, then.” 

Aziraphale was still shaking when they arrived at their table. Crowley was, too, but for an entirely different reason. 

“You are _certain_ that you don’t want me to, like, challenge him to a duel or something?” Crowley whispered to Aziraphale. 

“Why would you?” 

“To defend your honor, of course,” Crowley said fiercely. 

Aziraphale laughed, startled, into his champagne. “There’s no need, my dear, but thank you.” 

“Offer stands,” Crowley said. “Permanent offer, that. I’ll learn how to fence just so I can kick his ass.” 

“Thank you, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was warm, gentle. “You really are my knight in some sort of armor today, aren’t you?” 

“Every day,” said Crowley. “Any time. And for the record, there’s zero percent of a thing wrong with going to a wedding alone. I’ve done it about a dozen times, y’know? ‘S not all bad. Dancing’s fun, at least.” 

Aziraphale paled. “Goodness. Dancing. Do you think there will be dancing?” 

“Here?” Crowley blinked at him. “Uh. It’s a wedding. I’d guess there’ll be dancing at some point.” 

“I’m a terrible dancer,” Aziraphale explained. He was twisting his ring around his finger again, eyes unfocused on something in the middle distance. “I don’t want to embarrass you, Crowley.” 

“Oi.” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s free hand, squeezed it. “I can almost guarantee I’m a worse dancer than you are, angel. Don’t have to be good at it for it to be fun.” 

“Really?” 

“We can be bad dancers together,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale’s eyes brightened. “Besides. Bonus in my mind is that Gabriel probably took fancy dance classes, and then you and me’ll get out there and make fools of ourselves, and he’ll probably be mildly horrified.” 

“You’re terrible,” said Aziraphale, which was not a no.

“‘Course I am.” 

Because all good things come to an end, it was at this moment that Aziraphale’s mum and step-father chose to approach the table. Aziraphale had said hello to them when he and Crowley had first arrived, but all of the hustle and bustle of the wedding had prevented a conversation about the Relationship Thing until now. 

“Aziraphale Adams,” Mrs Archer said, settling into a chair beside her son, “I cannot believe that you didn’t tell me about this yourself!” She gave Crowley a smile. “Hello, dear. Your mum and I have been having the _most_ interesting chats lately, has she told you?” 

“Yes,” Crowley said, because he had been getting an earful of the wedding plans that the two women had started making for himself and Aziraphale for the better part of two months. Ever since his mother had found out about his supposed romantic relationship with Aziraphale, they’d talked of nothing else. Crowley, of course, hadn’t had the heart to tell his mum that this entire thing was a sham. He and Aziraphale would stage a breakup in a few weeks, and that would be the end of that. “Seems the two of you have been enjoying yourselves.” 

“I’ve been thinking of ordering matching jumpers for Christmas if you boys are planning on coming home,” Mrs Archer said, and her husband laughed. 

“She won’t stop talking about it,” he said. “I guess our families will be celebrating together.” 

“We, ah, haven’t sorted our holiday plans just yet,” Crowley said at the same time Aziraphale said, “I think we’ll be staying in the city this year. But thank you, Mum.” 

“Uh,” said Crowley. 

“Right,” said Aziraphale. “Still, mm. Still discussing it.” 

The conversation with the Archers dragged on for nearly a quarter of an hour, during which time it came to pass that both Aziraphale and Crowley dug out their mobile phones to show off the various staged pictures they had taken together (the one at the park with the ice creams was Crowley’s favorite, and he’d set it as the lock screen for his phone). Crowley sat still, and he smiled, and he held Aziraphale’s hand, and he listened to Aziraphale’s parents ooh and aah over various pictures and stories, and he tried very hard to believe that this was real. Just for today, just for the next few hours, he wanted it to be real. 

But then Aziraphale’s mum said, “So, boys, are we going to be seeing something like this for the two of you any time soon? It’s taken you long enough to get together — anyone who’s spent more than five minutes around you both knows you’ve been besotted with each other since the day you met,” and Crowley’s blood turned to ice. 

“Mum,” Aziraphale said sternly, but his warning went unheeded. 

“I mean, really,” Mrs Archer laughed. “How did it happen, you two getting together? We’ve been cooking up the craziest theories.” 

Aziraphale had gone an alarming shade of red, and his hand was shaking in Crowley’s. So Crowley forced a small laugh and said, “Well, y’know. Like you said, was bound to happen sometime. I just, well. Just told him that I’ve loved him for a long, long time, and things just sort of… progressed, you know, from there.” 

Mrs Archer gasped, delighted, and the weight of what Crowley had just confessed slammed into his chest like a ton of bricks. 

_‘Just told him that I’ve loved him for a long, long time.’_ Fuck. Fucking fuck.

Next to Crowley, Aziraphale had gone rigid. His hand had stiffened, and when Crowley squeezed, Aziraphale didn’t squeeze back. 

Fuck.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said, flashing a smile at his mum and Paul before climbing to his feet, “but I’m afraid I’m not feeling quite well.” 

“Angel,” Crowley said. Aziraphale ignored him. 

“I think I’ll excuse myself for a moment,” said Aziraphale. Half a second later, he had turned on his heel and fled. 

“I, um.” Crowley swallowed hard. “Sorry. Should, should go check on him.” 

“Of course,” Mrs Archer said. “See you later, Anthony.” 

“Right,” Crowley said. “Later.” 

By the time Crowley managed to weave his way through the throngs of people filling the Savoy’s ballroom and make it outside, Aziraphale was already climbing into a cab. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley was running now, waving his hands in the air like a madman. “Aziraphale, wait, _please,_ let me explain—” 

The door to the cab slammed shut, and Crowley’s world fell to pieces at his feet.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale finally stop being complete and utter fools and sort things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dears! I hope that you enjoy this chapter -- there's some pining at the start, but they figure things out eventually. Thank you all for leaving such amazing comments; you make me want to keep writing! This story has been very fun to post, and I've enjoyed seeing your reactions immensely.
> 
> Warnings: language

_\-- 2008_

The night that Crowley told Aziraphale he loved him was, in all other respects, an unremarkable one. It was a warm summer night, and rain-damp air filtered into Aziraphale’s bedroom through an open window. Crowley had been hopping the fence between their back gardens for years; his bedroom window faced Aziraphale’s, so he could always see when Aziraphale was home. He’d cross his garden, climb over the fence, and climb up the trellis on the side of Aziraphale’s house until he was just high enough for his hand to reach the window. They had a code, a dumb knocking system they’d made up when they were fifteen, and Crowley had stuck to it ever since. Crowley would knock twice, then twice again, and if Aziraphale could let him in, he’d knock back the same way. If he couldn’t, he’d knock back once, and Crowley would slither back to his own room. 

Tonight, Aziraphale had opened the window without knocking at all, so Crowley had climbed up the rest of the way and levered his long body through the open window. They had just finished school, and they were headed to university in the autumn, and the summer night air was intoxicating. Crowley was feeling brave. 

They were lying together on Aziraphale’s bed, talking in hushed voices about summer plans and university curriculums and some random historical fact that Aziraphale had unearthed earlier that day. Aziraphale’s old turntable was filling the room with some sort of soft classical music, and Crowley turned his head to watch Aziraphale talk. 

Aziraphale was beautiful. Crowley had known this from the first day he’d laid eyes on Aziraphale through the garden fence, and the feeling had only gotten stronger in the four years since. They had only kissed once, but Aziraphale had asked Crowley to do it, and it had been _good._ It wasn’t too late to transfer to a university closer to Aziraphale. It wasn’t too late for Crowley to stay, if Aziraphale wanted him to. 

“Hey,” Crowley said when Aziraphale had finally stopped reciting history facts and begun to catch his breath again, “I, uh. Like your hair tonight.” 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows raised themselves into pretty arches. “Thank you.” 

“And I like the way you dress.” 

Aziraphale looked even more confused. “O-okay?” 

“And I like that you like old books and old music and old paintings and things,” Crowley continued, heart beating nearly out of his chest. “And, and you make me laugh. All the time. And I like making you laugh, too.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said slowly, “what are you talking about?” 

Crowley sat up, back against Aziraphale’s headboard, and shoved his hands into his hair. 

“Look, I’m trying to… I’m asking if you… damn, fucking shit, bloody actual Hell.” Crowley took a deep breath and then turned to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “I like you, okay?” 

“I like you, too, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. For a moment, Crowley’s world was full of fireworks, but then four more words slipped past Aziraphale’s lips. “You’re my best friend.” 

“Wait.” Crowley shook his head. “Wait, hang on. I mean, yes, obviously, you’re my best friend, too. But I… Aziraphale, I _like_ you. I _fancy_ you.” 

Aziraphale’s light-colored eyes went frighteningly wide. Aside from that, he didn’t move at all. 

“That’s, ghn. That’s not quite it, either. Not quite right.” Crowley wracked his brain for the right words, feeling them roll around on his tongue. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Look, Aziraphale. Thing is, uh. Thing is, thing _is,_ you know. I’m in love with you.” 

When Crowley had played this situation out in his head, there had been a few different scenarios. The best one, for obvious reasons, had been that Aziraphale would say it back. Crowley had thought that the odds of this were somewhat high — he’d seen the way Aziraphale had been looking at him in the two years since the kiss, and he’d thought that maybe Aziraphale simply didn’t want to make the first move. There was also a mediocre scenario in which Aziraphale said that he wasn’t quite to the l-word level yet but that he did fancy Crowley, so maybe they could give it a go and see if it worked. And then there was the bad scenario, the one Crowley tried not to think about. In that scenario, Aziraphale told Crowley that he didn’t feel the same way at all, that they were only best friends, and that he didn’t want to see Crowley again. 

Crowley had not, in all of the time he’d spent thinking about these various outcomes, expected Aziraphale to sit as still as a statue and do absolutely nothing but _stare_ at him. 

So Crowley said, “Aziraphale?” and Aziraphale jolted backward like he’d been struck. 

And then Aziraphale blinked, shook his head as if to clear it, and said, “Oh.” 

Crowley could feel hysteria rising in his throat. “What… what does… Aziraphale, what—” 

“Hold _on,_ Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. “Slow down, please. You… you go too fast for me sometimes.” 

Crowley felt like Aziraphale had driven a sledgehammer into his ribcage. “R-right.” 

“This is all—” Aziraphale flapped a hand in a meaningless circle “—a lot, you know. To take in.” Crowley could hear his own breaths coming in short bursts, could feel his heartbeat hammering in his ears, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from Aziraphale. Not until he was sure of what Aziraphale was saying. 

So Crowley said, “Right,” again, and he waited. 

Aziraphale said nothing. For almost an entire minute, Aziraphale said nothing. He sat on the bed next to Crowley, and he took several deep breaths, and he didn’t say a thing. 

Crowley nodded then, slowly. “Got it. ‘Kay. Right. Sorry to, uh. Go too fast. We can just… we can forget about this.” 

Aziraphale found his tongue again at that, but he only kept control of it for long enough to say, “Crowley.” 

“I’m gonna, ngh. Gonna need some time, though. Let’s not… not do this, not for a while.” Crowley gestured between himself and Aziraphale as he got to his feet, hoping he’d made his meaning clear. “I’ll get over it, okay? What I said. I’ll get over it. I just need a bit of time.” 

This time, it was Aziraphale who made a face like he’d been hit. “O-oh. Yes. You’ll get over it, of course you will.” 

“Right.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair and silently commanded his eyes to stay dry until he was out of this room, until he was back in his own house. He didn’t want to make Aziraphale feel guilty; it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t reciprocate Crowley’s feelings. Crowley needed to handle his shit on his own. “Good, then. Glad we, y’know. Got that out in the open, then.” 

“Quite,” said Aziraphale, his voice a frayed thread. 

Crowley cleared his throat and made his way over to the open window. “G’night. Shut this after I go, will you? Don’t want your floor to get wet. Supposed to rain again later.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, a tiny fragile thing. “I will.” 

Crowley nodded. “Good. See you, Aziraphale.” 

He climbed out of the window with none of his usual grace, a tangle of limbs and emotions that skittered down the trellis and landed knees-first in the muddy grass below. His mind was racing, filled with a hundred thousand thoughts about what could have been, wondering if he hadn’t been patient enough, asking himself if he should go back. But Aziraphale had been shocked, and he hadn’t said anything to lead Crowley to believe he shared similar romantic feelings, and so Crowley steeled his nerves and resolved himself to respect that. 

_There will be other people,_ Crowley told himself as he climbed into his own bed. _There will be someone else. I’ll find them. And Aziraphale will find his person, too, and we’ll laugh about this some day. There will be someone else, for both of us._

In spite of that thought, Crowley still threw his hands behind his head, sucked in a shallow breath, and let himself cry. 

_\-- 2020_

“Shit.” 

Crowley was driving as fast as he could without being completely reckless. He _wanted_ to break every speed limit law in London, but he also wanted to get to the bookshop without either a speeding ticket or wrapping himself and the Bentley around a lamppost, so he kept his speed reasonable. He had to see Aziraphale. He had to apologize. If he got to the shop and Aziraphale told him point-blank to leave, he would, but he’d come back. He’d come back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after. He’d keep coming back until Aziraphale would listen to him, until Aziraphale would let him explain.

Crowley pulled the Bentley to a screeching stop in front of Aziraphale’s shop, yanking his keys out of the ignition and practically sprinting toward the front door. It was, as he’d expected, locked. He pounded on it with his fist, desperation echoing in every muffled thump of his hand against the wood. 

“Aziraphale!” Thunk, thunk, thunk. “Aziraphale, I know you’re in there, I can see the light on.” Thunk, thunk. “Shit. Aziraphale, please.” 

He stopped knocking, breath coming in wheezing gasps, and he heard a soft rustling noise from the other side of the door. 

“I really am feeling under the weather, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. Crowley could hear the tightness in his voice even through the door, and his heart sank even further toward his shoes. 

“I’m coming in,” Crowley said, slipping his key into the lock. “If you’re really sick, I’ll make you some tea.” 

Crowley pushed open the door and found Aziraphale standing in the shop’s foyer, eyes rimmed with red. He’d taken off the jacket and bowtie components of his tuxedo, replacing the jacket with an oatmeal-colored cardigan that Crowley had been debating stealing for years. He looked completely and utterly _wrecked,_ and Crowley wanted to sink into the floor. 

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Crowley said softly. Aziraphale flinched at those words, his eyes squeezing shut. 

That had not been the reaction Crowley was expecting. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley tried again, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said, it just— the question caught me off guard, and I didn’t know how to make the answer sound right. I’m _sorry,_ Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale laughed, then, a strangled-sounding thing. “Yes, yes, I understand. You’re sorry. Is that all you came to say? If so, I… I think you should go.” 

Crowley shut the shop door behind him and stepped closer to Aziraphale. Aziraphale stepped back. 

“What do you want me to say, eh? What can I do? I can explain, if that’s what you’d like.” 

“There’s really no need for that,” Aziraphale said shortly. “You’ve made yourself quite clear. You were just trying to keep up the act, and I understand that. I asked you to do it, and you did. You did wonderfully, and it _did_ seem real.” 

“Then what’s the problem?” Crowley threw his hands out wide. “I know I shouldn’t have said that, I should’ve come up with something else, okay? I just… I don’t understand what’s going on here, Aziraphale. I don’t.” 

Aziraphale said nothing. 

“If you don’t want me to apologize, that’s fine, but at least _tell me what I can do to fix this._ ” Crowley couldn’t seem to catch his breath, so he just kept talking. “I swore I wouldn’t lose you over this, Aziraphale, and I’ll be damned if some stupid slip-up is going to cost me every bloody thing I care about.” 

“The problem,” Aziraphale said slowly, “is that I… well. This, today, it was an act for you. It’s been an act for weeks, months. Since the moment I got us into this mess.” 

“That’s what you wanted,” Crowley said, stretching his hands out even wider. “Isn’t it?” 

Aziraphale’s broad chest was heaving, and he was looking pointedly at the floor when he said, “It’s all been an act for you, Crowley, but it hasn’t been for me.” 

Crowley stopped waving his arms about like an idiot and just stared. 

“What?” It was a question, but it came off of Crowley’s tongue like a statement. He could almost hear it land on the floor. 

“I appreciate all that you did for me today, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “I truly, truly do. But hearing you say what you said about us, about how we got into a relationship that we were never actually in? It was all rather much for me, and I think I need a bit of time to process.” 

“Aziraphale, wait. Stop.” Crowley shoved his hands into his hair, tugging at it. “What the fuck do you mean when you say this wasn’t an act for you?” 

Aziraphale looked wounded. “Are you asking me to spell it out for you?” 

“Yes,” Crowley said. “Yes, Aziraphale, that’s exactly what I’m doing.” 

Aziraphale’s lip wobbled for a moment before he said, very quietly, “You told my mother that you love me, Crowley, because it was an act. I… I _do_ love you, Crowley. I do. Right now, I love you. A year ago, I loved you. A decade ago, I loved you. I have been in love with you for almost as long as I can remember, which is why it was painful to hear you say it and not mean it.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Crowley said. His heart was racing, and his fingers itched to reach for Aziraphale’s, so he shoved them into his pockets. “Why the fuck d’you think that ‘Oh, we’re dating because I love him’ was my immediate response to your mum’s question, hmm?” 

Aziraphale shrugged. 

“Because it’s the fucking truth, you blessedly _stupid_ completely beautiful idiot!” Crowley was almost shouting now, arms thrown wide again, chest exposed. 

It was Aziraphale’s turn to stare and ask, “What?” 

“I’ve been in love with you since, oh, I dunno. Possibly the second I met you? Was fourteen, probably wouldn’t have called it that at the time, but yeah.” 

“You said…” Aziraphale trailed off for a moment, spinning his ring around on his finger. “You said you would get over it.” 

“Well, I fucking didn’t.” Crowley kept trying to catch Aziraphale’s eyes, to hold his gaze for longer than a fraction of a second, but Aziraphale seemed to prefer looking anywhere but directly at Crowley’s face. “And I only said that because you didn’t feel the same, okay? I was… I was trying to make it better, angel, I swear. I thought I’d, I dunno. Thought I’d fucked it up. Thought you’d never want to talk to me again if you knew that I still— that I _still._ ” 

“I never said I didn’t feel the same,” Aziraphale said with a sudden fire. His eyes finally met Crowley’s, and Crowley felt his stomach fill with butterflies. “I _did_ feel the same, but I didn’t admit it to myself until a few hours after you were gone.” 

“Fucking hell.” 

“I knew I fancied you, of course. I just had yet to put the final label on my feelings, I suppose.” Aziraphale took a breath, cheeks flushed pink. “And by the time I was ready to tell you, I’d let you go, and you’d asked for space. You wanted time to get over it, to get over _me,_ and I wanted to honor that.” 

“You could have said something.” 

“I thought you wanted to move on,” Aziraphale protested. “And then, well. In the years since then, I thought you had.”

“I’ve been single for years, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale nodded. “True, but for many of the years prior to these most recent ones, you were… attached. Leo, Fred, Cleo—” 

“So were you,” Crowley pointed out. “There was Oscar for a while, and then it was Thomas, and then Will—” 

“You _also_ went steady with Will for a moment, if I recall,” Aziraphale said. 

“I didn’t know he was _Will_ Will,” Crowley protested.

“Just how many gay asexual Wills do you imagine there are in London, Crowley?” 

“I don’t know,” Crowley said. “Why are we fighting?” 

Aziraphale’s shoulders relaxed. “I really couldn’t say.” 

“Seems counterproductive,” said Crowley.

“Quite,” Aziraphale said with an amused snort. The little smile that had been moving across his lips stopped abruptly a moment later, though, and Crowley felt the joy that had been rising in his chest start to falter. “And I’m sorry.” 

“For what?”

“For letting you leave,” Aziraphale said, and for the first time since Crowley had entered the bookshop, Aziraphale stepped toward him. “I never should have let you leave that night. I should have stopped you. I should have been braver.” 

“No.” Crowley was shaking his head, closing the gap between himself and Aziraphale, reaching for Aziraphale’s shoulders. “No, you said I went too fast. Should’ve listened to you. Should’ve given you the chance to talk it through.” 

“I didn’t know you still felt that way,” Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley became quite suddenly aware of how close Aziraphale’s face was to his own. “I didn’t know.” 

“I didn’t think you wanted to.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Crowley laughed. “We’re both idiots.” 

“We seem to be, yes.” Aziraphale was laughing too now, a soft thing. “We could have been doing this for years if not for that.” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?” 

“What we’ve been doing,” Aziraphale said. “Holding hands. Taking pictures as a couple. K-kissing. Being together properly.” 

“Kissing sounds like a really excellent idea to me right now,” said Crowley. “I would definitely be open to doing that if you’d—” 

Aziraphale kissed him, and for the first time in his life, Crowley knew that it was real. Aziraphale’s cardigan was warm and soft under his hands, and Aziraphale’s fingers were playing with the hair at the back of his neck and tracing the line of his jaw, and it was beautiful. It was slightly more clumsy than Crowley had thought it would be, really, given that they’d had a bit of practice at this before, but the imperfection of the kiss made his heart soar even higher. It meant that Aziraphale was flustered and off-kilter, and it made Crowley incandescently happy to know that he was the one who made Aziraphale like this. 

_Like this,_ Crowley thought when they broke apart and he looked down at Aziraphale’s blush-reddened cheeks and lovely smile. 

_Like this,_ when Crowley leaned down to steal another kiss from those perfect lips, pressing his own smile against Aziraphale’s. 

_Like this,_ when they found themselves on the sofa in Aziraphale’s back room many minutes later, Aziraphale leaning against Crowley’s thin chest while Crowley threaded his fingers through Aziraphale’s curls. 

_Like this,_ when Aziraphale kissed Crowley goodnight at half-past three in the morning, sleepy and rumpled and beautiful. 

“I love you,” Crowley whispered in his ear. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to say it again.”

“I love _you,_ ” Aziraphale answered, placing one more quick kiss on Crowley’s lips. “And I am sorry that it took me so long to say it at all.” 

Crowley shook his head and nuzzled his nose into Aziraphale’s hair, breathing in the scent of paper and glue and delicate French lavender. “We’re here now, aren’t we?” 

“We are.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Crowley said softly. 

“Tomorrow morning?” Aziraphale asked. “We could go for breakfast.” 

“If you like,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale’s eyes brightened. “Perhaps we could get crepes.” 

Crowley laughed and pressed a kiss to the tip of Aziraphale’s nose. He thought of all of the years full of shared breakfasts and late-night drinks and swapped stories, of all the times when he and Aziraphale had sat together and loved each other in silence, wanting nothing more than to love out loud. 

And then a smirk spread across Crowley’s lips, and he said, “As you wish.”


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short final chapter in which things are soft and warm and happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for coming along with me on this journey! I know it took a minute for the boys to stop being absolute walnuts, but I hope this ending is the soft resolution you all require. Once again, this story would not have happened without the ever-incredible [ineffablefool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/pseuds/ineffablefool), for whom this bit of silliness was written. 
> 
> End note will include updates on my other works, so it's not related to this one! Thanks again for all of your encouraging words and kind thoughts about this fic. <3
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: language (I think)

_\-- 2021_

Aziraphale had always loved Crowley in the little things, so when Crowley asked Aziraphale to marry him, there was no grand plan in place. He didn’t cover the bookshop floor in rose petals, didn’t hire a string quartet, didn’t hang fairy lights from the bookshelves and put electric candles in the shape of a heart on the floor. Crowley didn’t see a need for those things. It wouldn’t have felt right, wouldn’t have been _theirs,_ so he decided to buck social tradition and keep his proposal stripped down to the little things. 

A cup of tea, for example, prepared the way Aziraphale liked it. A freshly-baked croissant from the patisserie on the corner. A kiss hello, soft and short and gentle. And a ring, burning a hole in the pocket of Crowley’s trousers on a Wednesday morning. 

“You ought to be going,” Aziraphale said, a small flake of puff pastry stuck to his upper lip. He was smiling, and Crowley thought he was beautiful. “You’ll be late for work.” 

“Nah,” said Crowley. 

“Beez will be out for blood, won’t they?” 

Crowley shrugged. “Not today.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said sternly, “you have _classes._ You have _students._ ” 

Crowley bent down and kissed him, tasting the sugar and butter on his lips. 

“Don’t think you’ll distract me into forgetting to open the shop today, my dear,” Aziraphale said sternly, and Crowley dropped to one knee. 

“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” Crowley said. He fumbled in his pocket, reaching for the small silver band. Above him, Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath, seemingly frozen in place. 

“What are you—” 

Crowley managed to pinch the ring between his forefinger and thumb, and he pulled it out of his pocket with a triumphant smile. The rest of Aziraphale’s question got caught up in his gasp, and his bright eyes went very, very wide. 

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley said softly. “Say yes.” 

“You… you haven’t actually asked me anything,” Aziraphale pointed out. 

“Marry me,” said Crowley, very aware that _that_ wasn’t exactly a question, either. 

Fortunately, Aziraphale was too caught up in nodding and crying and saying “Yes” to care enough to call him on this technicality, and they were soon far too busy kissing to worry about semantics any further. 

Crowley knew that it wasn’t the most romantic proposal in the world, but it hadn’t needed to be. They’d loved each other for long enough, had waited long enough. Crowley knew all of Aziraphale’s best pieces and had seen him at his worst, and Aziraphale knew those things about Crowley, too. Marriage wasn’t a question, really, when Crowley had actually stopped to think about it. From the moment they had gotten together, from the moment Aziraphale had confessed to loving Crowley, it had never been a question. It had been a matter of when, not a question of if. 

“I love you, you know,” Aziraphale murmured as Crowley slid the ring onto the fourth finger of his left hand, kissing his knuckles when he’d done it. “So very, very much.” 

“Love you too, angel.” 

Aziraphale kissed Crowley, his fingers weaving through Crowley’s hair. Crowley could feel the cold metal of Aziraphale’s new ring against the back of his neck, and it made him shiver. 

“I should get you one of these, too,” Aziraphale said when they broke apart. He spun the silver ring around on his finger, just as he’d always done with the one on his pinky. “We can… we can match.” 

Crowley made a happy noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah. Yes, that. Let’s do that.” 

“You really _do_ have to get to work, Crowley,” Aziraphale said abruptly. “Go on, away with you.” 

Crowley shook his head, laughed. “Took the day off.” 

“Why?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. 

“Thought you might take the day off, too,” Crowley said slowly. “Come out with me. Let me show you off.” 

“You’re quite the tempter, you know,” laughed Aziraphale. “When you want to be.” 

“You know you want to,” Crowley said, making his voice as low as he could. He wiggled his eyebrows, and Aziraphale snorted. “Could be fun. I’ll be a bit obnoxious, though, just so’s you know.” 

“Will you, now?” 

“Mm,” said Crowley. “Yeah. Gonna parade you around to fancy little cafes and bistros and a museum or two, telling everyone that you’re my fiancé.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes shone. “Oh, goodness. I hadn’t even… _Lord,_ I love the way you say that.” 

“What, fiancé?” Crowley grinned. “You’d better get used to it. ‘M not gonna stop saying it til we’re married, you know. Beez is gonna want to chop my tongue off, I’ll be using it so much.” 

Aziraphale hummed consideringly. “Say it again, will you? For the sake of practice.” 

“Fiancé,” Crowley said slowly, savoring each syllable. “Gotta practice it in context, too. Be thorough. Something like, ‘See him? The beautiful one with the ridiculous tartan bowtie? My fiancé, he is.’” 

“My bowtie is _not_ ridiculous.” 

“Sure, angel.” 

“It isn’t.” 

Crowley chuckled and nudged Aziraphale’s cheek with his nose. “Is, a bit. But it’s cute. Looks good on you.” 

Aziraphale gave a huffy sigh, but when Crowley looked at him, he was smiling. 

“Let’s go, then,” Crowley said. “Lots of practicing to do. Lots of showing off.” 

Aziraphale laughed, bright and clear, and took Crowley’s hand in his own. “I have a fair amount of that to do myself, in fact.” 

_\-- One month later._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, setting down his book with a small sigh, “let’s get married.” 

Crowley blinked at him from the other side of the bed. “What?” 

“I find that I am becoming increasingly frustrated by the fact that you have a flat,” Aziraphale explained. “It seems silly, I know, but I just… I think we should be married.” 

“We’ve been engaged for like a month, Aziraphale.” 

“Yes, and we were dating for a mere seven months before you decided to pop the question, my dear, so I don’t think that timing ought to carry much weight in the making of this decision,” Aziraphale said. 

“Point— yeah, point taken.” 

“Did you know that if we were to register to get married, we could be legally wed in twenty-eight days?” 

“I did not,” said Crowley. “How’d you come across that information, then?” 

“The internet,” Aziraphale said. 

“And you did this research when, exactly?” 

Aziraphale shrugged and set his book on the bedside table. “Earlier today.” 

Crowley felt himself starting to smile. “So you thought, ‘Oh, gee, wonder how long it’d take to marry Crowley if we registered right now,’ and then went and found out?” 

“Yes.” 

“Because you don’t like that I have my own flat.” 

Aziraphale sniffed. “Yes.” 

“And because you think we should just, I dunno, scrap the whole planned-wedding thing and elope?” 

“If you like,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley took approximately two and half seconds to think about this before he slid into Aziraphale’s lap, kissed him, and said, “Okay.” 

“Really?” There was a hint of a squeak in Aziraphale’s voice, a crack through which Crowley thought he could see sunshine. 

“Really,” said Crowley. “Twenty-eight days from the time we register, you said?” 

“Yes.” 

“Mm,” said Crowley. “Ought to get a move on then, shouldn’t we, so we can get married in twenty-eight days.” 

Aziraphale squeaked again. “The nearest register office opens at nine.” 

“It’s half eight,” Crowley said. “Like I said, should get a move on.” 

“I love you,” said Aziraphale, leaning up to press a firm kiss to Crowley’s lips. “In case you’d forgotten.” 

“Hadn’t,” Crowley said. “Could never. Loving you’s about half of what I think about, honestly, and the fact that you love me is the other half.” 

Aziraphale laughed at that, his soft body shaking against Crowley’s. 

“Serious,” Crowley said, and he kissed Aziraphale to prove it. “Love you, angel.” 

“I love you, too.” 

_\-- Twenty-eight days and six hours later._

“Do you know,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his thumb absent-mindedly across the back of Crowley’s hand, “I think I might have a favorite word.” 

Crowley snorted. “You? A favorite word? Nah.” 

“I do,” Aziraphale insisted. “I’ve decided.” 

“You’ve got a bigger vocabulary than most dictionaries,” Crowley said, curling his long body into Aziraphale’s side. “No way you’ve got a favorite.” 

“This is slander,” Aziraphale teased. “I haven’t the foggiest idea why I married you, you beast.” 

Crowley smiled against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Gotta tell me what your favorite word is for me to believe you, you know.” 

“I don’t know if I’m certain I want to, now,” Aziraphale said, words trailing on the end of a laugh. 

“Angel.” 

Aziraphale cocked his head. “Mm. I do like that one, especially when you say it, but no.” 

“I wasn’t _guessing,_ ” Crowley said. 

“Weren’t you?” 

“Oh, sure, _I’m_ the beast, am I? Bloody impossible game, this one.” 

Aziraphale laughed again, warming Crowley’s insides with the sound. “Husband.” 

Crowley peeled himself away from Aziraphale, eyebrows raised. 

“That’s my favorite word,” Aziraphale said. “Husband.” 

“Oh,” said Crowley.

“I like your name, of course,” Aziraphale continued slowly, lacing his fingers through Crowley’s, “but it isn’t my favorite word.” 

“Nhh.” 

“And I do love when you call me ‘angel,’ and I was _very_ fond of fiancé.” 

“Hngh.” 

“But I think ‘husband’ is the winner,” Aziraphale said softly. “Because it is the thing I am that I love most.” 

“Gnh.” 

“And it is also something you are,” said Aziraphale. “It is what you are to me.” 

“Y-yeah.” 

“So I think that there couldn’t possibly be any contest, you see.” 

“Mm.” 

“There isn’t a better word, not in all of the English language.” 

“Hnn.” 

“I just thought you should know.” 

Crowley kissed Aziraphale then, partly because he wanted to but mostly because he couldn’t not. He kissed his husband — his _husband_ — for many long minutes, breathing in the short strains of Aziraphale’s laughter and tasting the faint golden sweetness of the champagne they had shared after they’d gotten married, and it was in those little things that Crowley knew that this was real. He knew that Aziraphale’s love for him was real. He knew that their forever was real, that growing old with Aziraphale would be real, that he had a husband and that was real. He knew that he’d been a fool for so long, that they both had been, and that was real, too. 

And it was a beautiful thing, Crowley decided as he kissed his husband, to have a life like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I appreciate you so very much. As promised, here's an update on my other projects: 
> 
> I'm three chapters into a fic called [The Serpent's House](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27705290/chapters/67806458). I haven't been as excited about a fic in a long, long, time as I am about this one, so it's there if you'd like to give it a look! 
> 
> Also, I made stickers and posters and prints and a few other things of pride-flag colored cacti. There are eleven options to choose from, each with the colors of a different flag. You can find them on Redbubble [here](https://www.redbubble.com/people/queerjoy/shop).
> 
> I hope you all are as well as can be expected during these strange times! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [Tumblr!](https://hope-inthedark.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, if you would like to make any sort of creative work (art, podfic, whatever) based on this or any of my stories, consider this blanket permission to do so! I only ask that you would tag me in your work so that I can see it and share it! Thank you for being here, and thank you for reading. I hope you are having the best day!


End file.
